Louder Than Words
by Samwise221b
Summary: Molly could always see through the facade that was Sherlock Holmes and he let her. This time, though, he didn't hide anything. His body was failing and he was no longer able to fight back. Everything else was transport, yes? She wanted this case to set it all right. A simple one, maybe, no more than a 6 just to be safe. Then again, nothing is ever safe with him.
1. Prologue

_**Prologue**_

Darkness.

Everything was hidden from view by the black veil of night. The only light was from the stars, but what help are they trying to see anything ahead? There was no sound, not anymore. There was the occasional faint splash of water against the boat, but it made no significant noise, at least not one anyone could hear...That is if anyone was around to hear it.

The water was taunting the boat, coaxing everything around it to be consumed by the dark freezing hell below. It seemed to be an evil creature that was waiting in the darkness for it's next attack.

Waiting.

The moments of life that slipped by seemed like eternities. The mixture of silence and darkness made the time impossible to determine. It was morning, that was certain; the incident happened around midnight, or was it before then? Time had slipped away so quickly as soon as the chaos erupted. That first moment of impact, still lingered in Molly's mind as if it had happened just moments ago. The feeling of that sudden shake echoed through her body as if to add to the intensity of her shivering.

Freezing was too kind of a word to describe how her body felt. Her shaking frame was pressed against her lover's limp body, their arms wrapped around one another to keep each other from falling into the dark abyss below them. This broken, barely afloat, vessel was keeping them alive, that and hope. Hope to be found. Hope to be rescued. Hope to go home.

Hope.

'_Wishful thinking', _Molly told herself, _'That's what got me here. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have been so naive?'_

She slowly lifted her head from the shoulder it was resting on; the sound of her crackling, frozen hairs made her flinch. She looked straight ahead at the darkness before her and absorbed the sight. Nothing. There was absolutely nothing around them that resembled any form of life. It was a graveyard; bodies of men and women, dressed in their nightclothes, bobbed in the water like corks. Their faces pale and their eyes were black; completely still and emotionless like the faces of porcelain, china dolls. Molly had seen many a dead body before, but not like these. These bodies, these people, didn't have to end up this way.

'_These people didn't have to die.'_ she thought _'They could have had a chance. They could have lived.'_

A groan from beside her, broke Molly from her thoughts. It came from him, her love, still clutching to the very edges of consciousness. If it had been any other situation, she would've been overjoyed and ecstatic. Now, however, she was too cold and exhausted to show her happiness. _'At least he's still alive,' _she thought, '_I'm not completely alone just yet.' _Shaking beyond belief, she gave his frail body a tight squeeze to let him know that she was still alive as well and he, with the little strength he could muster, held back.

"Mmm," was all Molly could dissect from her lover's horse, barely audible moan. Her own voice was completely gone so she couldn't inquire as to what he said, or rather was trying to say. She merely squeezed his hand to the best of her ability, a physical reminder that she was still here.

Her frozen joints ached as she adjusted herself to be face to face with the man she loved. His lips were quivering and blue with a layer of what was no doubt ice outlining his perfect cupid's bow and thin lower lip. Those luscious curls were hard and frozen, dangling in his pale face like icicles. His normally hypnotic, glass-like eyes that would shine a unique bluish green were now gray and unfocused, showing none of their usual spark. If he weren't holding onto her hand and mumbling, Molly would have assumed him lost along with the others around her.

However lifeless and cold those eyes may have appeared, they still struck a cord in Molly's heart. She loved him, truly and deeply. It was the reason they were in this very predicament, laying here in the harsh cold in the middle of nowhere with their arms around each other. She did all of it for him, risked it all for him...gave up everything for him. If only she could, Molly would whisper to him once more those words that ached at her heart strings daily:

'_I love you, Sherlock. I love you and I'm sorry.'_

His eyes were starting to close and his raspy breathing was becoming more and more labored. _'He's fading,' _Molly thought as she raised a shaking hand to cup Sherlock's cheek, _'Please, no. Not like this.' _His skin was so cold to the touch that it easily could've been mistaken for stone. Molly just gazed into his eyes and pleaded wordlessly for him to hold on. He was trying, but what use was there now? They both knew that death would be a fact sooner rather than later. They would be together until the very end, just not in the Utopian way they had planed for. They weren't going to make it out of here. This watery, freezing hell was to be their final resting place.

Hope was lost.

Waiting any more would just be in vain.

Darkness was all they would soon know.

Suddenly, a light shown brightly ahead. Molly could only see clearly out of the corner of her gaze, but she knew the light was coming toward them. Was this death, that infamous 'light at the end of the tunnel' so many had alluded to?

"Mm..." Sherlock moaned again, his voice slurring over the attempt at making words. Molly was too focused on the light to try and decipher his groans; she was mesmerized by the warm glow that just seemed to be coming nearer. It was in fact moving closer and closer to them. She could almost feel the warmth radiating from it or was that her imagination just trying to fuel that false hope?

Her lover tried to give out another moan, but it seemed that his weighing strength could no longer let him. Sherlock let out a sound that almost resembled choking on air and then, he let his body go limp in Molly's hold. His eyes finally closed as his weary head fell forward, his chin resting on his chest. He had finally lost all sense of consciousness and quite possibly life. A sense of panic entered Molly's mind, but she was too weak to let it show. She could only keep holding on to him, saying an empty prayer to herself that this light would bring a form of escape and safety for them.

A figure seemed to be holding the light; a tall, thin, dark figure that was nearing them, sliding across the water with ease. It came closer and closer with every blink of Molly's heavy eyelids until finally it seemed to be mere inches away. The figure stood above the pair, like a beacon of some sort. A beacon of hope? Unlikely.

"Can you move at all?" the figure asked of her, but Molly didn't quite understand. It's voice seemed so far away and muffled to her ears, almost as if they were speaking underwater. She opened her mouth, but as expected no words came. Feeling the exhaustion finally taking the best of her, Molly closed her eyes and tuned out of the world around her.

She felt her body being separated from her lover's and then laid down into a cocoon of warmth: blankets, no doubt. A hand brushed across her forehead and it felt so warm against her frozen skin.

"Molly? Molly, can you hear me?" came a voice, one that she was certain she had heard before but just couldn't place the name at the moment.

"We have get them heated back up," the voice of the figure said, "I'll have my team look through all of this mess; God, what the hell happened?"

"You can figure that out at a later moment," snapped the familiar voice, "Right now, I'm going to need some help getting these two back to the ship and warmed up. Greg, can you lift either of them?"

"Of course. The medics are on stand-by when we pull...John, he's not breathing."

"What?...Shit, no. No, no, no. Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me? God damn it, let's get moving!"

Molly broke free of the claws of her catatonic state as she heard this. Her eyes fluttered back open and her gaze landed on the small group huddled over a still figure, wrapped up in blankets. It, of course, was her Sherlock, laying ever so still and ever so...lifeless.

'_Not breathing.' _The phrase echoed through her foggy mind, taunting her into guilt, _'No, not like this. He can't go like this. I promised him, I'd save him. He can't go now.'_

"Has he got a pulse?"

"N-no, no. Greg, I...I...Come on Sherlock, don't give up like this!"

"Damn it, can this boat move any faster?!"  
"We're going as fast as we can, Detective Inspector."

"Then push yourself and go faster!"

'_Giving up.' _Molly's mind told her, _'He's giving up...but he can't.'_

"Sherlock," she managed to whisper, lifting a shaking hand out of her cocoon of blankets in an attempt to reach out to him.

"Molly, Molly, just rest," came the familiar voice (belonging to John, apparently), "I'll save him, I promise you. Just rest for right now."

"Sherlock." Molly tried again, her sight blurring as she tried to reach the man laying just a few feet from her, "W-wake up...Sherlock...please."

Her fingers gently grazed his stone cold hand, but there came no response. He was so still, almost as if he were in a deep deep sleep. But no, not he wasn't sleep.

He was gone. She was sure of it.

"Sherlock..." Molly pleaded as the darkness of fatigue started to take her again, "...I'm...sorry."

**********  
_**Hello! If you are a returning or new reader, welcome friend.**_

_**This is something very new for me in the writing sense and I hope you enjoy it. This, if you couldn't discern from the title is the prologue; The actual story and explanation as to how this happened will come in the following chapters. I wanted to get this out there first before posting the first chapter as a test to see if any interest is sparked. I will be posting the next chapter, which is the real beginning of this tale, very shortly. **_

_**Please let me know what you think. It will not go unheard or unappreciated, I assure you. **_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	2. Chapter 1:How Can it Make Any Difference

_**Chapter 1: How Can it Make Any Difference?**_

_****2 Months Earlier****_

"Excuse me. Pardon me, I just...just have to get by here. Excuse me."

Her soft and meek voice merely added to the background noise of the hustle and bustle of the homicide division of Scotland Yard, deriving no notice from those around her. She pushed and shoved through the maze of desks and officers standing about, checking her phone every few steps to see if a reply had come in. _'Highly unlikely,' _she thought, _'If he's too busy to come down himself, then why would he reply to my simple text?' _Giving up on receiving a message, she stuffed the phone back into her bag and continued her trek to the office door at the very back of the room.

"Please, let me by. Sorry to be a bother. Thank you."

The door lead to an office that she knew so very well; she would often visit here when she'd tag along on a case. Well, not so much as tag along as being dragged to come because the case was going to be very dull and boring so a simple distraction afterward would be most delightful. _'A delightful distraction,' _she often pondered, _'Is that all he thinks I can be? Surely, he must know better than that by now.' _Very careful not to disturb the man typing away at the desk, she opened the door just a sliver and maneuvered herself inside.

"If your here to ask about the Branson case again, my answer remains the same." the man said, not even shifting his gaze from the screen for a second.

"Er, um, okay. That's good, I suppose," she rather nervously replied as she adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder, "Although I'm not entirely sure what the question is supposed to be."

The man finally looked up in surprise but then relaxed; "Ah, Molly, it's you. I thought you were someone else."

"I know. Sorry to disappoint," Molly said with a smile, "How are you, Greg? Keeping busy I see."

"Oh, you know how it can be when a case closes. Nothing but endless piles of paperwork," DI Lestrade replied, motioning his head toward the chair in front of his desk, "It's nice to have a little break from it all, , have a seat."

"Oh, I'd love to but I really can't, thank you. I actually need to get going in a bit." she sheepishly replied, "I, um, I just came by to tell you something. Well, actually not tell you something but rather, well...relay a message."

The detective inspector raised an eyebrow in suspicion as he leaned back in his chair; "Oh? What kind of a message?"  
"Well, when I say message, I really mean it's more like a...a friendly heads-up," she sheepishly explained, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink, "Yeah, a heads-ups! It's from...well, do I really need to tell you who?"

"No, no I guess not," he chuckled, "I can figure that much out for myself. Why doesn't _he_ just tell me though, huh? It's not like he doesn't have my number or anything."

"Yeah, I-I don't know," Molly replied with a nervous laugh, "You know how he is though; No one can tell what's going on in that funny head."

Her heart suddenly began to race nervously as she chewed on her lower lip. She was lying, obviously; she knew exactly why he hadn't called Lestrade or made any form of an effort to contact the DI. It was the same reason he didn't reply to her texts. He quiet literally was incapable of doing so at this moment. He wasn't being lazy, no, not in the least bit. This time, he actually was doing something rather important and he couldn't possibly get away...or so he told Molly and she willingly believed.

'_Impossible man. I wouldn't be surprised to learn he just tricked me into coming down here on his behalf because he simply couldn't be bothered. Wouldn't be the first time.'_

Either she had hid her lie very well or he had decided not to linger on it (Molly was going for the latter), Lestrade just let out a heavy sigh and adjusted his arms across his chest: "What's he want this time? I swear if it's about the Branson case..."

"It's not about the case, not really." Molly went on nervously, "It's about the body."

"The body?"

"Yes, the body. It's...It's not in the morgue. Not all of it anyway."

Lestrade's brow furrowed in confusion as he sat up a bit more. His demeanor was calm and collected, but his anger and disappointment shone clearly in his eyes. "Molly," he said, his voice indicating that he already knew what she was about to say, "What do you mean it's not all in the morgue?"

"I mean exactly that, actually," she explained, "You see, when I had finished the autopsy-now, mind you the family had given their full consent in donating the remains to science."

"Molly..."

"It was perfectly okay at first. He was just experimenting on it in the lab, but then he wanted to take some of his work home and since Branson had donated his body to the lab in his will, I let him cut..."

"Molly, are you about to tell me that you allowed Sherlock to take the body of a murder victim from the morgue to Baker Street just so he could run a few experiments on it?"  
"No...He just took the limbs."

"The limbs?!" Lestrade suddenly exclaimed, standing up right with his hands resting on his desk, "Jesus Christ, Molly, the investigation is still on going! What if we needed to look at the body more?"

"You didn't, I made sure of that," she (rather desperately) said in her defense, "The cause of death was already determined and a full autopsy was carried out. There was nothing more you needed to see."  
"You swear to that?" he snapped, "Because if there is a new development and we need to take a closer look at the body and then we come to find it's been tampered with...Molly, you know that I don't usually care what happens to the bodies after the autopsy, but this case is still ongoing!"

"I know, I know, but like I said there was nothing more to be found." she repeated, "Listen if your team needs to view the body, you can just tell them that the body is unavailable."

"Yeah cause that'll go over so well," Lestrade sighed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose and just shook his head in dismay.

Molly tucked a stray hair behind her ear and nervously looked down at her shoes. It wasn't like her to point the finger, and granted it was a very childish way to excuse herself from the incident, but in all reality this was not her fault. Yes, she let Sherlock take the limbs back to Baker Street, but he was the one who took the body apart in the first place.

"The veins on this man are perfect for my experiment, Molly," Sherlock had pleaded with her, "I must have them." He had stuck out his bottom lip and batted his lashes just the right way to make Molly's heart flutter, the common tricks she knew he would use, thus she reluctantly agreed; partially because she trusted him and partially because she knew the arms and legs wouldn't be missed.

At least, she thought they wouldn't have been.

"LESTRADE!"

A booming voice from outside of the office caused both the worried DI and Molly to turn around. From the office windows, they could see a very determined-and frankly very angry-Anderson coming their way. His face was red and, in his tight fist, he was clutching a manila folder; a case file, no doubt.

"Lestrade," the flustered forensics officer barked as he swung open the office door, giving Molly just barely enough time to get out of the way before it slammed against the wall, "do you care to explain what the hell this is?!"

"Ah, Anderson" Lestrade said, with a heavy sigh, "to what do I owe the pleasure? Enjoy being back in your old gig?"

"Don't pretend like you don't know what I'm going to ask you," Anderson snapped back, waving the folder around, "You know why I'm here or have you not heard that all the physical evidence collected from the Branson crime scene has gone missing?"

Molly closed her eyes and just shook here head in dismay; _'Damn it, Sherlock. I told you to put it back.'_

"Missing?" Lestrade regretfully sighed, placing his hands on his hips, "How could we have let that happen?"

"I'll tell you how!" Anderson smugly said, "It was Sherlock!"

"Now, Anderson, let's not point fingers, alright?" Lestrade replied, "Yes, Sherlock has access to everything to do with the cases he's assigned to. It helps him do what he's brought in to do. Yes, his methods can be a bit...unorthodox, but he would never go as far as to take evidence. What would he do with it anyway?"

"Whatever it is he usually does!" Anderson replied, "Test it with some chemicals at his house, try and prove some out-of-the-box theory he has about fibers in clothing, Who the hell knows? But look, he's taken stuff from us before."

"When?"

"Pink suitcase, remember?"

"That was almost five years ago and, to be fair, he found that on his own."

"I thought you were more sympathetic towards Sherlock?" Molly piped in, "Being head of his fan club and all. Why is he the first to blame?"

"Ah, Molly, glad you're here. Saves me a trip to the lab," Anderson smartly said, facing her now, "I need to see Branson's body."

She could feel the color drain from her face. Her heart was racing now as she nervously gripped the strap of her bag; "The body? What for?" she meekly asked.

"Well, since Sherlock took the evidence I need to review what was found on the body. And for the record, I never said I was more sympathetic toward Sherlock. I'm just...a little more tolerant of him."

"Doesn't seem that way," Molly muttered under her breath, but it was loud enough for Anderson to hear.

"Now, listen, Molly," he said, pointing a finger at her, "I am walking on thin ice here. I got this job back solely on Lestrade's say so and I will not be made a fool. If your boyfriend had anything to do with this missing evidence..."  
"He's not my boyfriend." Molly quickly stammered, "Sherlock's not my..."  
"Fine. Whatever you want to call it; I know you two have some kind of partnership."

"We don't."  
"Right. Of course."  
"No. We really don't."

"Alright, alright, that's enough," Lestrade said, stepping between them, "Anderson, look, I'll send Sherlock a text and see if he knows where the evidence might be. Will that ease your mind?"  
Anderson grumbled something incoherently and then nodded his head in reluctant agreement; "Fine, fine." he sighed, "I do need to look at the body in the meantime."

"It's unavailable," Molly stated, "sorry."

"Oh for God's sake!" Anderson loudly groaned, tossing his hands up in the air, "Did you let him take that as well? Lestrade, this is ridiculous!"

"Anderson, just study the autopsy report," Lestrade commanded, ushering the frustrated man out the door, "I'll text Sherlock. Now, back to work."  
"I swear to God, it better not have been his fault that the evidence is missing," Anderson scolded as he headed out of the office, "He can't get away with these sort of these things forever!"

Molly watched as Anderson grumbled to himself as he stalked back to his work station. Part of her felt bad for the man; he shouldn't be made to look like a fool just when he's gotten his job back. Sherlock shouldn't have taken the evidence or the body's limbs. He knew better...but perhaps he just didn't care. That wouldn't be news to Molly, but still that's no excuse.

"Molly, look," Lestrade finally sighed, breaking the awkward silence that now resided over the office, "I have always appreciated your work and you know that I never comment on the...relationship you have with Sherlock."

"Wait, what?" Molly asked, squinting her brow in confusion, "I-I don't see how that has to do with...I don't have a relationship with Sherlock."

"Molly, come on, everyone knows you have a little office crush on Sherlock."  
"I don't have an office crush."  
"Okay, yes, I was just trying to be civil. You're head over heels for him and everyone knows it."  
Molly's cheeks turned a beat red and she couldn't muster a reply. True, she had never been good had hiding her emotions for anyone to anyone, but it wasn't like that with Sherlock. At least not anymore. She meant what she said: she did not have an office crush on Sherlock Holmes. Not anymore.

Unsure of what else to say, Molly just shrugged and adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. She watched as the weary DI ran his hands through his short silver hair as he walked back to sit at his desk. He looked tired and "Greg, I...I'm sorry," she said, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, "I shouldn't have let Sherlock take the body parts or the evidence."  
"So he did take it?" Lestrade said, more than a fact then a question, "Huh, I was hoping that Anderson was just being petty. What does Sherlock need with the evidence and why did he feel the need to take it home? He's never done that before...well, at least not to my knowledge. He's been getting more and more testy, ya know. Ever since that whole Magnussen business; I still don't even know what happened there, do you?"

Molly just shook her head. She did know, of course, but it wasn't her place to explain it all to Lestrade.

"I know he's stressed," the DI went on, "working cases with us and trying to figure out that Moriarty video. Sherlock's got a lot on his mind, I get that, but...Ah, I'm just rambling now, aren't I? Sorry."

upset; she couldn't help but feel like she was the cause of it. Molly hated thinking that Lestrade was mad or disappointed in her. He was the only caring person she'd known since she started working as a pathologist. He was very much like a father to her; a caring man with a heart of gold. And yet, she couldn't help but think that she had dented it right now.

"I'm sorry," she said again, "Truly, I am."  
"You don't need to apologize," he replied, plopping down in his chair, "I'm not mad at you, Molly, and truthfully I'm not mad at Sherlock. Frustrated as hell with him, yeah, but mad? No." He gave her a small smirk and she smiled in return. Lestrade then became very serious and leaned forward a bit, folding his hands atop the desk, "Look, Molly, as your friend, can I-can I ask you something?"

"Of course," she replied, "Anything. What is it?"

"Well," Lestrade sighed, "it's just...Is there something going on between you and Sherlock? Something...romantic?"

"What?" Molly asked with a laugh, "Where did this come from?"

"Look, as I said, everyone knows you have a sort of...thing for him," he continued, "and things seem to be different around you two, ever since that video came out. Sherlock seems to act more like a, I don't know, gentleman around you. Nicer, I guess."  
"Is that why you think I let him take the body parts?"

"No, no, that's not what I'm getting at. I just want to know if something is going on. Now, I've known the both of you since you both started working for the Yard and I've watched your two have become closer in the past few months then I've ever seen. So that leads me to ask: are you two finally together?"  
Molly let out another laugh and shook her head; "Greg, I appreciate the concern about my love life, but there is nothing going on." she replied, "Really. Sherlock and I...we're friends. Just friends."

"You would tell me though, right?" he asked with a sort of chuckle, "I mean, if you two did ever..."

"Good afternoon, Greg," Molly quickly said, heading for the door, "I've got to dash."  
"Alright then," she heard the DI chuckle as she headed back toward the lift.

'_What does he mean by finally together?_ ' Molly wondered as she maneuvered through the crowd.

No one, especially Lestrade, had ever wanted her and Sherlock to get together. To everyone around them, Sherlock was the heartless genius who bossed her around her own lab and she was just the doe-eyed girl who obeyed. She knew she wore her feelings for him on her sleeve for all the world to see, but after the whole Sherlock faking his death fiasco and disappearing for two years, Molly was sure she had more of a control over it. Nobody could have been pinning for them to be together, nobody. They acted completely normal around one another, so who could even think of them as together?

'_But Lestrade can see a change', _She thought, _'He can tell something is different. Are we being...that obvious?'_

Breaking her from her thoughts, Molly's phone vibrated in her bag. She pulled it out just as she entered the lift and read over the message on her screen:

_How'd he take it?-SH_

A smile grew across Molly's face and she just shook her head as she hit the button for the lift to take her to her destination. "So now you want to text," she chuckled to herself as she typed up a reply, "Impossible man."

_Rather well. You're not fired.-MH_

_I don't work for him anyway. The arms will be back by 3 tomorrow.-SH_

_I'm sure Mr. Branson won't mind. You owe me one for this today.-MH_

_Don't I always?-SH_

_Will the evidence bag be back too?-MH_

_Perhaps. Not done with the pollen samples. Why?-SH_

_Anderson needs it.-MH_

_He can wait. Done for the day?-SH_

_Yes but I have to stop somewhere before heading home.-MH_

_Ah-SH_

_I mean it when I say you owe me for today, btw-MH_

_I'll repay the favor.-SH_

_You better, you git-MH_

_I love you too, Molly Hooper-SH_

_***********  
Thank you to those who have shown support and interest in this story. I can't wait to share more with you readers and I hope you enjoy it. As you can see, I've already established a relationship between Sherlock and Molly and I'll get more in detail with in the following chapters.**_

_**Please continue to share your thoughts as they are very helpful for the writing process.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_


	3. Chapter 2: Signs You Can't Ignore

_**Chapter 2: Signs You Can't Ignore**_

"_...__I'm not a hero__. __I'm a high-functioning sociopath.__Merry Christmas!__"_

_BAM!_

"_Man down, man down__!"_

"_Get away from me, John! Stay well back!__"_

"_Christ, Sherlock!__"_

"_...__Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire!__"_

"_Oh, Christ, Sherlock.__"_

"_Give my love to Mary. Tell her she's safe now.__"_

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open as the memory of that dark Christmas faded back into the depths of his mind palace. It was days like this where that memory would stir and come to the fore front of his ever busy mind; days where there wasn't a case to keep him occupied or anyone around to break him from his boredom. He was alone in the dimly lit living room of 221b Baker Street, which was how he found himself most of the time now. It was just him with no distractions around or if there were, then they were too small to hold his interest. It was the lull of boredom that brought these memories on. When his mind wasn't on a case, the past would often rear it's ugly head and fill Sherlock's thoughts, making him remember the things he'd wished he could forget.

He could still hear the sounds from that night, echoing through his ears as if to be a constant reminder of what he had done: the piercing pop of the gunshot, the clamoring of the officers' feet as they set their riffles to be aimed right at him, the whirling of his brother's helicopter over head, the desperation in John's voice as he looked on as the whole scene erupted around him. It all seemed as if it were only yesterday, not six months ago. No detail about that night had been forgotten or misjudged. It was a like a film on constant loop going on in his head with all those sounds echoing loud and clear in his skull. A single voice stuck out though, one that wasn't even present at the event; it was his own voice but somehow distorted into having a much darker and sinister tone. It would repeat a single phrase over and over again as the scene would drag on:

'_You're a murderer, Sherlock Holmes. A cold blooded murderer.'_

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands too his eyes and he let out an agitated moan. Why couldn't he get it all out of his head? He had been on many cases before where the criminal he'd been hunting down died in front of him, that was nothing new. He had seen death more than once in his own life, so why should the death of Charles Augustus Magnussen be any different? Perhaps it was because he was the cause of it, the guilty one, the reason Magnussen's body now laid six-feet underground.

Perhaps it was because he, Sherlock Holmes, was the murderer after all.

"Stupid," Sherlock mumbled to himself as he curled his body into a ball and wrapped his blue dressing gown around his frame as much as possible. He had been laying on the couch in the living room of 221b since noon and it was nearing the early hours of evening now. His skull was pounding and his stomach was churning. "I'm not ill," he told himself as he closed his eyes, letting the slightest amount of fatigue over take him, "I can't be ill."

He'd awoken rather early that morning-the sun wasn't even up yet-due to a splitting headache and a slight wave of nausea. _'It's nothing, just transport acting up'_ he told himself as he stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, clutching to the sink as if to keep himself upright, _'Only transport. I'm fine.' _He had failed to fall back asleep; he just laid there with his eyes closed, trying to forget the pain that was beating against his skull. When he had decided to get up, the sun was fairly high in the sky. He managed to shower and get dressed for the day, but chills ran all over his body making even the slightest movement sting like pins and needles in his nerves. Was it a fever? No doubt of it, but he never was ill.

Sherlock Holmes simply didn't get sick. He had no time for it.

Of course, the ever busy, fast paced, logical part of his mind added up all of his symptoms-the chills, the headache, the nausea-and came to the obvious conclusion that he was coming down with , for quiet possibly the first time in his life, Sherlock ignored logic and pushed any thought of being sick aside into the depths of his mind palace. The truth of it all was, though, he had figured out something was wrong with his body weeks ago; that's when the symptoms actually had started. It only seemed recent that the the true nature of whatever was ailing him had come to light; it was getting harder to ignore the symptoms. _'Only transport,' _was on constant loop in his thoughts, _'It's only transport.'_

Perhaps it was the sickness that has brought on these unwanted feelings about that horrid Christmas Day. Maybe the walls of the genius' infamous mind palace were breaking due to the fever, releasing those unwanted memories and unwelcome feelings of...dare he say regret? Sherlock didn't regret ending Magnussen's life, not in the slightest. That man deserved to be put down like the dog he was. In Sherlock's eyes, anything other form of punishment that awaited Magnussen would have been seen as showing him mercy. Sherlock did what he had to to protect those closest to him, those he felt were apart of his family. In the eyes of the world though, that didn't excuse murder. Sherlock Holmes had blood on his hands; he was a murderer, plain and simple. A cold blooded murderer with a black mark that can not be so easily erased from one's records no matter how hard Mycroft tried.

There was no use in it anyway. Sherlock was a murderer, plain and simple.

"_Get away from me, John! Stay well back!__"_

"_Christ, Sherlock!__"_

"_...__Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire!__"_

"_Oh, Christ, Sherlock.__"_

"_Give my love to Mary. Tell her she's safe now.__"_

"Sherlock," came a voice from what sounded like far away, breaking through the memory, "Sherlock, come on, wake up." A strong grip took hold of his shoulder and shook him slightly, jerking Sherlock back to reality and out of his dark thoughts. He opened his eyes and blinked a few times to clear his vision. He let out a heavy sigh as his gaze landed on the face of his former flatmate, hovering over him like a mother looking over their child.

"John, you are awfully close to my face," Sherlock groaned, attempting to hide his groggy voice behind humor, "People might talk."

"Nice to see you too," the former army doctor replied, with a roll of his eyes, "You alright? You feel kind of warm."

"I'm fine," Sherlock lied, swatting John's hand away as it made the move from his shoulder to his forehead, "or at least I was until you disturbed me."  
"What? Did I interrupt some important mind palace research?" John teased as he took a seat in his old chair.

"Perhaps you did," Sherlock replied with a groan. His body ached as he made his way into a sitting position. The room spun for a moment as he found his center of balance, but Sherlock kept his facade of being 'perfectly fine' up for John. Of all the people in his life, Sherlock could not let John know that he was sick. John would just make a fuss, like all doctors do; it wasn't his fault, it was just in his nature. All doctors were the same in Sherlock's mind and John was no exception. He just trusted John a tad more than other physicians that's all, but not enough to tell him of his symptoms.

"Here," John said, tossing Sherlock a wash cloth he had retrieved from the kitchen, "you look like you've just run a marathon. Who was chasing you in that dream?"  
"No one," Sherlock exhaled, wiping his sweat drenched face (_'Fever must be picking up again'_), "I was just thinking. You didn't have to shake me."

"Well, I've been calling your name but that wasn't getting me anywhere," John scolded, "Couldn't you hear me?"  
"Evidently not."

"I figured since you weren't responding that I'd shake you. You know, make sure you were still alive and what have you."

"How very kind."

"What are friends for, huh?"

Sherlock looked up at his best friend and gave him a half-mouth smirk. John just shook his head but smiled in return. The topic was dropped and they wordlessly decided to move on. This was a common practice between them. The friendship of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes seemed to be the biggest mystery to have ever faced the pair. They couldn't explain how it worked but it just did and that was enough for them. It's not quiet functional but it suits them.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, rolling the sleeves of his blue dress shirt up to his elbows, "Shouldn't you be with your wife or something like that?"

"Um, well, Mary had some errands to run," John replied, sounding a bit taken back, "and I'm here because it's Thursday."

"You don't usually plan your visits by the days of the week, John," Sherlock smartly remarked, looking down at the ground and running his hands through his curls, "Why is this Thursday so special?"

"Oh, I don't know Sherlock. Maybe it's because Thursday is the day I bring your goddaughter over to see you."

Sherlock shot his head up and looked at John with wide eyes. The army doctor just motioned his head to the left and sure enough, playing in the middle of the living room on the mat her father had set up for her, was five month old Harper Watson. A pang of guilt hit Sherlock's stomach, sparking a short wave of nausea, as his gaze landed on the little girl. The child's big brown eyes gazed up at him and she immediately reached her pudgy arms out as an invitation for him to pick her up. Careful not to send himself into a dizzy spell, Sherlock stuffed the rag into his trouser pocket, got up from the couch and made his way over to the giggling baby.

Had he truly forgotten about this visit? John had brought the little girl to Baker Street every Thursday to see him, how could he have not remembered something as important as that? The days must have slipped by him..or perhaps this illness was starting to affect his memory. No, that couldn't be because he wasn't that ill. However, this may be a symptom worth noting. _'Just transport.' _he reminded himself as he scooped the little girl up into his arms, _'Only transport.'_

"You forgot, didn't you?" John asked, but it sounded more like an accusation, "How could you forget? You never forget anything, let alone these visits."

"Apologizes," Sherlock said as he took a seat in the chair opposite his best friend, "my mind doesn't seem to be in the right place at the moment."

"Clearly," John sighed, "you sure your alright?"

"Fine," Sherlock shortly replied, returning his gaze to the smiling girl in his arms. He ran a long finger across his goddaughter's nose, causing the little girl to giggle and clutch onto his hand with all of her little might. Very few children-actually it was most likely just this one child-brought joy into Sherlock's heart. He had sworn to protect her, long before she was born, which made her a member of the elite list of those Sherlock held dear. So why did he forget this day?

'_You're not ill. There's nothing to worry about. Your mind is fine.'_

"We've been here for about an hour now," John said, sounding a bit more serious now, "Mrs. Hudson said you were resting."

"And I clearly was, until you woke me," Sherlock replied, still focusing on Harper.

"It didn't look like resting to me, Sherlock." John went on, "You looked like someone who was having a nightmare. You were shaking and sweating and, like I said before, you were warm to the touch. You know, if you were coming down with something, you could always tell me."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Sherlock nonchalantly stated , but he knew that his facade was not as strong as he had intended. John could see right through it and he could see something wasn't right. Whether it was the symptoms of this mystery illness or the strain that the resurgence of the Magnussen memories were causing his mind, Sherlock couldn't tell, but it was clear John knew something was amiss about his best friend.

"Seriously Sherlock, you...you don't look well. Have you been sleeping?"

"Of course I have," Sherlock replied as monotone as possible, but John wasn't convinced.

"The bags under your eyes give you away and so does your weight." the doctor went on, "Have you been eating at all? Any nausea or vomiting or lack of appetite?"

"Are you trying to diagnosis me with something, Doctor? I was unaware I was past do on my check-up."

"Sherlock, don't blow this off. Can you just answer my question?"  
"Which one? I think I've heard about four different ones since you've shaken me awake."

"Sherlock, come on."

"What? You didn't clarify. How am I to answer your question if I don't know which one your referring to?"

"Jesus, Sherlock, just talk to me" John sighed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, "What's been on your mind lately, huh?The past few times I've been over, you seem a bit...I don't know, not yourself."

"Define 'not myself'," Sherlock shot back, "I have done nothing out of the ordinary or changed my daily routines any anyway. I've been sleeping just as I always have and, as for my weight, I've always been skinny there's nothing to be done about that. Don't believe me, ask my mother."  
"Okay, and what about just now," John continued to pry, "Have you been dozing off like that a lot lately?"

"So what if I have. You know that I slip into my thoughts for hours on end, tuning myself out to the world as it were. I am perfectly fine, John, now please drop it."

"But your obviously not."

"I said drop it."

"You know I'm only trying to help."  
"I am aware of your intentions, John but I want you to drop it...please."

Hearing the word that the consulting detective so rarely used, John let out a heavy sigh and gave up his little quest. He knew something was amiss with Sherlock, the signs were all there, but he just couldn't place a finger on it. There was no point in wasting his energy on it though, not if Sherlock wasn't going to drop his guard. _'Give it time, though, and he'll tell you' _John thought to himself,_ 'He always does in the end.'_

"So, I heard from Lestrade earlier," John said, breaking the tense silence.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed in reply, turning his attention back to his goddaughter who was using his left pointer finger to suck on, "What about?"  
"Nothing of importance really," John went on, "Just that they were finishing up that Branson case."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, he said something about hitting a snag though. Apparently, the body's been tampered with. The arms are missing."

"Well, that couldn't have been Molly's fault."

"No, he said he knew it was you."

"...Oh"

"Yeah, and apparently Molly had told him all about it and she took responsibility for the whole thing."

"Well, you know how Molly is."

"Not as well as you do."

Sherlock raised a questioning gaze to his friend but was met with John just snickering at him, like a schoolboy who knew some sort of childish secret. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked back down at his goddaughter; "Your father needs to learn how to handle certain things with more maturity," he said to her, "Please, when your older, show me that you didn't inherit his trait of immaturity."

"Oi, I'm not immature." John said, "I just find it amusing that you've somehow got your girlfriend to cover for your stupid mistakes just like any other man would do."  
"Firstly, I didn't make Molly do anything," Sherlock stated in his defense, looking back at John, "I simply asked her to deliver a message to Lestrade saying that the parts were in my care and I wasn't finished with them yet. If she took responsibility for it, then that's her own issue. Secondly, don't call her my girlfriend."

"What am I supposed to call her?" John chuckled, "'The Girl that lives with you and you shag every night'?"

"And you say your not immature," Sherlock grumbled, "Listen, I don't believe in titles; Calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend seems childish to me. They are names used when two people are dating. Molly and I aren't dating, we are in a full-fledged relationship."

"Those are one in the same."

"No, dating implies that the couple is still trying to impress one another by taking them out to diners or special events and other dull things like that. Molly Hooper and I are not trying to impress one another. We are simply in a committed partnership. She's happy which means I'm happy, thus nothing more is needed. I don't know why you think I don't understand the concept of being with someone; it's a very simple

"...You have the oddest view on relationships, Sherlock, you know that."  
"Perhaps that is why I've been so against the idea for so long."

"That is until Molly, of course."

"Of course, now will you stop prying into my personal affairs?"

John just shook his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration; "God your being very sensitive today," he sighed, "Whatever your coming down with must be making you more aggravated with the world then usual."

"Shut up," Sherlock mumbled in reply, "I'm perfectly fine."

"Right, of course you are." John said, getting up from his chair, "I'm going to give Mary a quick ring to see if she wants to swing by here when she's done. Care to watch over for Harper for a bit?"

"Yes, yes, we'll be fine," Sherlock replied, waving a hand dismissively through the air, "Take your phone call and get off my back." John rolled his eyes again as he dug out his phone. Sherlock watched as the good doctor went down the stairs then turned his attention back to little Harper, who was simply smiling at her godfather as there wasn't a care in the world.

"I apologize for forgetting about our meeting today, Harper," Sherlock said in a soft tone he only used with her, "my mind isn't working the way I want it to right now. Can you forgive me?" The baby giggled and her smile just grew. "I'll take that as a yes then." Sherlock replied with a small chuckle.

Harper then reached her pudgy hands up and let out a small fussy noise. Seeming to understand her perfectly, Sherlock adjusted his hold on her so that she could lay her head on his shoulder then got up to walk around. She started to yawn and nuzzle her little head in the crook of her godfather's neck as he gently bounced her in his arms. Sherlock then sat down beside Harper's mat in the middle of the room and gently rested Harper on her back atop it. The little girl instantly clung to his hand but then closed her eyes.

"That's my girl," Sherlock cooed, kissing the top of her head as he rubbed her stomach gently, "Just shut out the world and go to sleep." Within moments, Harper was fast asleep with a small smile across her rosy pink lips and her godfather's hand in her tight fist.

In a way, Sherlock envied the little girl for being so blissfully happy all the time. Nothing seemed to bother her or truly upset her. Even when she was upset, someone was always there to fix the problem and make all her troubles go away. Deep down in that cold heart of his, Sherlock longed for someone like that. He was a grown man that wanted a person to be his comforter. A someone, anyone, to just take him by the hand when times were bad and say_ '_It'll be alright, Sherlock. You're going to be alright.'

That's what Molly was there for, though, wasn't it? Not that he only though of her as someone to just seek comfort from; No, Molly was so much more than that. She was always by his side, always there for him even when he didn't know he needed someone. She was a light in his dark life and it took him far to long to realize it. Molly Hooper didn't care about his faults or his failures. She simply cared for him, all of him, and he cared for her. They may not always say to each other, but the feelings were always there.

Careful not to wake his goddaughter, Sherlock reached over to grab his phone off the coffee table with his free hand. He held the device up and typed a quick message:

_Come home already. I'm bored without you.-SH_

"Don't you ever tell your father I've gone soft, Harper Watson." Sherlock whispered to his goddaughter, "This will be our secret, yes?" His phone gave a short buzz indicating a new message had just come in and Sherlock quickly opened it:

_Finishing up then I'll be home. Can you last a few more minutes?-MH_

"Such a loaded question, Molly Hooper," Sherlock said to himself as he ran his thumb over the screen, "Can I last without you?"

Just as he was starting to type a reply, a small coughing fit erupted in his chest. Sherlock quickly turned his head away from his goddaughter and covered his mouth with the rag he had used earlier to clean off his sweat. Once the fit had passed, Sherlock looked down at Harper; she wasn't phased by the outburst which gave him a bit of relief. He slowly lowered the rag and his eyes immediately landed on the small red specks of blood that now rested on the cloth.

"Evidently I can't," he sighed, closing his heavy eyes and leaning back against the chair behind him, "I can't last without you."

_******  
Thank you for reading another installment of this story. Just to clarify, this chapter as well as the last one take place before the events of the prologue. The story will be leading up to that point and, if you already couldn't tell, it will be a bumpy road. Please let me know what you think and thank you again for the support.**_

_**Much love and many thanks.**_


	4. Chapter 3: You and Me

_**Chapter 3: You and Me**_

Molly sat quietly in the hard plastic chair in the waiting room, picking nervously at her fingernails. The white ceiling fan that spun above her seemed to give the room an eerie essence as the shadows of the blades hit the bland floor at a melancholy pace. The walls were so gray and bland, just what one would expect out of a walk-in GP's office. A few other plastic chairs were parallel to her, empty thankfully; Molly really wanted to do this alone. She never did know who Sherlock had sent to watch over her (homeless network, one of Mycroft's people, it varied) but she could always point them out. _'It's the thought that counts, I guess,'_ she would tell herself,_ 'He just wants to keep me safe.'_

Why was this taking so long? She was told that this would just be an 'in than out' appointment. No, this wasn't an appointment, this was a pick-up; get the bag and then go, why was that so hard? Molly let out a heavy sigh and pulled out her phone, a mindless action just to keep her nerves down. Sherlock had texted her, bored out of his mind and waiting for her to come home. He probably was starting to suspect something was going on, but Molly knew the thought would soon pass through his mind as if it were nothing. His palace was too full right now to worry about her doing anything suspicious. Besides, today was Thursday; His time and focus was centered on his goddaughter no doubt.

"Sorry that took so long," came the cheery voice of Mary Watson as she entered the room from the door labeled 'Staff Only', "I had to take a phone call. John says hi by the way."

"Oh, um, hi." Molly sheepishly replied, focusing solely on the white prescription bag in Mary's hand, "How is he? At Baker Street, I assume. It is Thursday."

"Yeah, he's...he's still there." Mary cleared her throat a bit and cautiously took a step toward her eagerly awaiting friend. She was chewing on her lower lip and was trying to avoid any eye contact. Molly might not have been Sherlock Holmes but she could see that something was deeply bothering Mary and it must be important; it takes something big to rock the stone-cold heart of an assassin, retired or not.

"Is everything...okay?" Molly asked, thinking that it was John causing Mary to worry.

"Oh, yeah, yeah. It's all fine," she replied, "John just wanted to know if I'd be near Baker Street and if I wanted to swing by 221b. That way we'd all head home together."  
"So, John doesn't know where you really are." Molly said more so as a statement rather then a question.

Mary just shook her head; "You clearly didn't want to tell anyone but me. I don't know why, though; I'm a nurse, not a doctor. John would be more help then me seeing that he is an actual doctor."

"Yes, but he would want to dwell on it." Molly quickly replied, "I needed this to be quick and simple. Where does he think you are?"

"I told him that I had some personal errands to run. He doesn't suspect that I'm here, with you, illegally obtaining..."  
"Is it illegal? I-I mean I gave you everything you needed to make a full diagnosis, went through all the paperwork..."

"Molly, you know what I mean." Mary gave her a stern yet understanding look, much like one a mother might give to a child during a scolding. Molly wasn't offended though; she knew this whole ordeal wasn't exactly ethical. But it was right. Absolutely right.

"Hey, come on." Mary said, "I get it. Your worried and you're on our own in this. It's just-Molly, this medication it's...it's some pretty heavy stuff."

"I'm aware," Molly sheepishly replied, "people seem to forget that I'm a doctor as well."

"Right, of course. Sorry," Mary said, handing her the bag, "You know what your doing. I'm just worried about-Is he really that sick, Molly?"

Molly took the bag and slowly rose from the chair, keeping her eyes focused on the package in her grip. Was he really that sick? That's the question echoing through her mind since she set up this whole ordeal. Was Sherlock ill enough that he needed this high-grade medication?

"Would it satisfy you if I said I think that he is?" she asked, giving Mary a wary smirk.

"I guess so," Mary replied with a sigh, "Come on. Let's get going."

With a nod, Molly followed her friend out of the room, her focus centered around the precious package she was now carrying. Neither of them spoke while they made their way to the exit; nothing more really needed to be said. It wasn't that Mary was upset and, for that matter, nor was Molly. True, Mary was risking her job as a nurse to help Molly obtain this medication, but that didn't bother her. It was for a good cause in the end, wasn't it?

They made their way out of the building and into a cab. Molly gave the driver the address then they were on their way to Baker Street. Mary quickly shot John a text to let him know they'd be there shortly and within a few seconds came his reply.

"Huh," Mary said, reading over the message, "odd."  
"What is?" Molly asked, finally looking up from the medicine in her lap.

"John says that he and Harper are down with Mrs. Hudson and just to text when I arrive." Mary replied, "Apparently, the visit was cut short."

"Cut short? No way," Molly chuckled, "Sherlock would never give up time to be that little girl or John, you know that."

Mary nodded in agreement as she shot off another text. The alert went off in seconds: "Ah! John says Sherlock had to investigate a crime scene, too dangerous for John to bring Harper along apparently. He just dashed out of the flat without saying anything else. That's weird, don't you think? I mean, doesn't Sherlock usually take cases while Harper is over and if he does, he takes John."

Molly only nodded then turned her attention to view the busy London streets whizzing by. Even though she wasn't there, she knew there wasn't a case. Sherlock would never just get up and leave Harper and John in that way, not even if the case was a full blown 10. Something wasn't right and she was eager to get home to see exactly what it was.

Maybe he was sick; he wasn't quite himself this morning, that was certain. Molly had noticed when she got up this morning that he was still sound asleep, or at least trying to appear to be. His eyes were closed but Molly could tell by his breathing that he wasn't asleep, just trying to relax. She hadn't bothered him only because she knew that he would only deny feeling ill. That didn't stop her worrying as she prepared for the day. Trying to be as discrete as possible, when she went back to the bedroom to kiss him good-bye before leaving for work, Molly brushed her hand against his forehead to feel for a fever. His skin was definitely warm to the touch, almost too warm.

He hadn't mentioned any of his symptoms to her, of course, but Molly could tell something had been ailing Sherlock for weeks now. It was the waking up in the middle of the night that tipped her off. While pretending she was still fast asleep, Molly would open her eyes just a sliver to watch Sherlock head to the bathroom and then listen to his hacking from behind the closed door. She then started to pick up on the little things he was so desperately trying to hide: every time he'd close his eyes because of an intense headache, the dizziness after just walking around the living room, the sweating of his brow even when he wasn't working hard. Molly could see through his facade, but she never let that show. She truly believed that if he were extremely ill, he would tell her. That was before the 'fainting spells', though.

Sherlock wouldn't exactly faint per-say, but there were times of the day in which Molly would catch him trying to find his center of balance before almost falling over. It be during even the simplest of tasks: playing his violin, leaning over an experiment, everyday tasks that shouldn't be causing him strain. A few days ago, she had to catch him before he came crashing down onto the linoleum kitchen floor; he had been making tea and was waiting for the water to boil. Obviously, once he had come to shortly after, Sherlock denied feeling dizzy and claimed that he was just tired, but Molly hadn't bought it.

She could always see through him, even when he didn't want her to.

That was when she decided to take the whole matter into her own hands. Sherlock may not care for his so-called transport, but Molly did. She wasn't going to let this illness get the best of the man she loved. So she collected what she needed then called Mary to arrange this secret pick-up. She wasn't as skilled of a physician to diagnosis Sherlock (she worked on the dead, not the living) but Molly was able to figure that flu medication would keep the symptoms at bay. Well, at least for the time being.

"We're here," Mary said, breaking Molly from her thoughts. The two women climbed out of the cab, splitting the fare between them, then headed towards the door. John was stepping out of the door just as they pulled up.

"Ah, you've made it. I just finished packing up the car." he whispers as the women come closer, "Great timing, Mary. She just dozed off." Harper was wrapped up in the crook of his arm, fast asleep with her thumb in her mouth. Cooing gently, Mary took the baby into her arms and started rocking her back in forth. Molly smiled at them, secretly wishing to one day have a moment like this with a child of her own. _'Now's not the time for that,'_ she told herself, stuffing the medicine bag into her purse, _'Later. Much later.'_

"I'll put her in the car seat, then," she whispered, then turned her attention to Molly, "Wonderful seeing you today." she said, completely changing her demeanor, "Talk soon, yeah?"

"Yeah, of course. Yeah," Molly stammered, "Nice seeing you, bumping into you actually, yeah." She never could lie as well as Mary, then again lying used to be part of Mary's job.

"Right, okay, where did you park, John?" Mary asked, facing her husband again. John motioned toward the car parked a few feet away and Mary heads toward it, giving Molly a small wink as she passed her.

"Nice that you two bumped into each other," John states, "Always a good deal when you get to share a cab, right?"

"Yeah, guess so." Molly replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "Sorry about Sherlock running off."  
John just shrugged and stuffed his hands into his jean pockets; "I should be used to it by now," he said, "It was strange, thought. I get off the phone with Mary, head back up the stairs and then a few minutes later, Sherlock says he has to go."

"He didn't say anything?" she asked, thinking that if Sherlock was feeling ill that he'd tell John...wouldn't he?

"Not really," he replied, "He just picked up his coat, kissed Harper, then said he had to dash to a crime scene. Maybe Lestrade had text him, but I didn't hear it." John then took a deep breath and leaned in close as if to tell Molly some form of a secret; "Can...can I ask you something?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"Um, sure," Molly said in confusion.

"Has Sherlock been acting strange? Well, stranger than normal?"  
"How do you mean?"

"Has he been,I don't know, off lately?"

"John, he's always been 'off'" Molly chuckled, "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific."

"When was the last time he slept? Properly, I mean," he asked, sounding much more like a doctor then a concerned friend, "When Harper and I arrived this afternoon, Sherlock was out cold on the sofa. If it weren't for the moaning, I would've thought he had knocked himself unconscious."  
"Moaning, what kind of moaning?" Molly asked, mentally adding a new symptom to her list.

"Like he was in pain. I had to shake him awake," he replied, "His skin felt warm, Molly. I would even go as far as to say he was feverish; that could explain the forgetting."

"Forgetting?"  
"Yeah, he...he forgot that today was Thursday. It was like he had know clue why I was there."

Molly took in a sharp breath and chewed on her lower lip. Perhaps this whole thing was much more serious then she expected? No fever strong enough could cause Sherlock to forget his goddaughter's visit. Was this illness moving to his brain? Was this some force that was completely out of Molly's control? No, she didn't want to think like that. This was just a hiccup; Sherlock was probably so busy he just...no, nothing, no case or experiment would distract him from Harper and John.

Something was terribly wrong with Sherlock.

Seeing her distress, John nervously cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair; "You know what? It's nothing." he said, "I'm over thinking it all."  
"John," Molly began to urge him to go on, but he just shook his head.

"We can talk about it later if you like," he sighed, "Just, keep an eye on him when he gets back, alright? I know you always do, but for tonight, just...let me know if something's wrong."  
"Yeah, I will." Molly replied, "Th-thank you for letting me know all of...that."

John just nodded then they shared a small hug before he walked over to join his wife. Molly remained on the stoop of 221b for a while, watching them drive off and loosing herself to her thoughts. Why hadn't Sherlock told John he was sick? Surely, he trusted John with that information. He couldn't hide this anymore, his facade was starting to crack. Or perhaps, the facade wasn't even up. Maybe Sherlock just didn't care if he was ill and he was just letting this illness run it's wicked course. No, he couldn't be that careless. Could he?

Deciding not to linger on it anymore than she had to, Molly dug her keys out of her purse and turned toward the front door; "A hot bath to clear your head, that's what you need Molly Hooper," she told herself as she turned the knob. Just before stepping through the front door, a pair of arms wrapped around her waist causing her to jump back in surprise.

"Odd, isn't it?" came a voice from behind her, "I would've thought you'd recognized my touch by now, Molly."  
Molly let out a deep sigh and slowly turned around to come face to face with Sherlock Holmes. She gave him a genuine smile as she rested her hands on his shoulders; "You startled..." she started to say, but Sherlock cupped her face in his hands and brushed his thumb over her lower lip.

"Don't speak," he whispered just before they exchanged a deep kiss.

Taken back just a bit, Molly closed her eyes and slowly brought her fingers up to tangle in his curls. He tasted of cigarettes but she didn't care. Just for this one moment, she'd let it thoughts of illness melted away from Molly as she contently moaned into his mouth and it seemed to her that she was floating on air.

Sherlock always had that effect on her, that wasn't news. Molly's heart was his the moment she laid eyes on him; the intellect, the way he held himself as he strutted into a room, everything about the mysterious man had sent her emotions on a fairground ride that never seemed to end. It wouldn't be until years later that she learned Sherlock felt the same way. The road to where they were now was a bumpy one, to say the least, but somehow they each knew this was where they were going to end up.

Together, locked in each others arms, never wanting to let go.

When they gently pulled apart, Molly wrapped her arms around Sherlock's waist, nuzzling her head under his chin; "That was unexpected," she said with a quaint smile growing across her lips, "Can I ask what has brought this sweet affection on?"

"I missed you," he whispered in reply, wrapping her up in the warmth of his coat, "Oh, I missed you terribly, Molly Hooper."

"You see me everyday," she giggled, "Your acting like you didn't think I was coming back."

Sherlock smiled and placed a kiss on the top of her head, "Come on, let's go inside. You must be exhausted." he said into her hair, "And you must tell me where you've been."  
"I told you. I had things to do."

"Hmm, yes, _things_ to do. How mysterious of you, Ms. Hooper." Molly just rolled her eyes and playfully swatted his chest as Sherlock unlocked the door.

As they stepped inside 221b and headed up the stairs, Molly couldn't help take notice of how slow Sherlock was walking ahead of her. He seemed to be calculating each step, almost making absolutely sure to not miss one or he would topple over. He was gripping to the banister, as well, so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. Molly was suddenly reminded of the fragile state Sherlock was in and her heart broke a little. Without really thinking about it, Molly came up beside him and wrapped an arm around his waist to help keep him upright.

"I'm fine." Sherlock said, his voice sounding a little out of breath.

"Didn't say you weren't." she replied, placing a kiss on his cheek. It was warm to the touch. Even if he was trying to put up a front, Molly could tell that he was feeling ill. Sherlock Holmes could fool many with his stone-cold exterior, but never Molly Hooper.

They made it up to the living room and Sherlock removed Molly's coat as well as his own and hung them by the door. He plopped down with a thud onto the couch and tossed his head back. Molly watched his chest rise and fall with heavy breathes as she hung her purse by the door as well. As discreetly as possible, she took out the medicine bag and held it behind her back.

"So where did you run off to?" she asked, taking a few steps toward Sherlock.

"There wasn't. I lied, but you already knew that." he replied, closing his eyes, "It was strange. I felt so...compressed."  
"Compressed?"  
"Yes. As if the whole room was caving in around me. I needed to get out and relax. Very unlike me, I know, but I just couldn't stay in the room for a moment longer."

'_That would explain the cigarette taste.' _Molly told herself.

After a few moments, Sherlock sat up a bit and opened his eyes to lovingly gaze at Molly; "Come here," he cooed, patting the spot next to him on the couch, "and tell me what's on your mind."  
Molly gave out a heavy sigh and joined him, keeping the medicine bag well hid behind her back; "You can always tell when something's bothering me, can't you?"

"Of course I can, it's part of who I am," Sherlock scoffed, wrapping an arm around Molly's shoulder's, "Now, go on, tell me what has got you so distressed."

"I guess there's too much to say," she replied, nervously looking down at her lap, "Nothing for you to worry about anyway."

"Oh I don't think that's true," he said with an air of knowing in his tone, "After all, it is about me or rather my state of being, is it not? Why else would you and Mary meet at the clinic after you finished at Scotland Yard today?"

Molly didn't respond, but she bit her lower lip in embarrassment. _'Of course he knew where I was. He always has a way of knowing.'_

"Nice of her to help you out, though." Sherlock continued, "Sad that John had to be kept out of the loop. He suspects something is wrong with me as well, but I told him I was fine."

Molly didn't reply.

"Because I am fine, Molly, trust me. A few sleepless nights and a headache here and there is nothing to me; I've suffered far worse. I've been shot remember?"

Still, she didn't reply. What was there really to say?

"Molly, please look at me."

With a sigh, Molly raised her head and locked eyes with him. Sherlock tucked a stray hair behind her ear and gave her a small smile; that smile that could make her heart melt no matter the circumstance: "I had to do something about you being sick. I couldn't stand it anymore," Molly finally confessed, "The night sweats, the coughing and the passing out all had to be connected to something. Don't try to deny it because I know for a fact you have each of those _are _sick, Sherlock, I just don't know with what yet. But that's what Mary was helping me with today. Look."  
She pulled out the medicine bag and removed the package from inside; "I got this for you." she explained with some hope in her voice, "It's nothing more than some flu medication, but it is pretty high-grade. You'll perhaps feel a bit muddled for a few hours, but this will help you."

Sherlock just stared at the medicine as if it were poison, completely in denial that it would be necessary for him to take. That heart warming smile had faded away and the emotionless facade was up in full swing. He looked back at Molly and then the package again; "You didn't need to get this," he stated, removing his arm from her shoulders.

"Yes, I did." Molly was quick to reply, "You need it."

"I don't need anything," he coldly said, "Just...leave this alone."

There was an uncomfortable tension growing between them now. It wasn't like them to argue only because Sherlock never felt the need to. But this was a battle Molly wasn't going to back down from; He was sick and god damnit she was going to do something about it, even if he wouldn't.

"Look, you need to take this medicine." Molly firmly said, setting the package in his lap, "Do you want to have fainting spells and a nasty cough for much longer?"  
"The cough is nothing," Sherlock replied, childishly pushing the medicine aside, "and it's only been a few days since that incident in the kitchen. It was nothing. I'm fine."

"No, you're not!" Molly said, raising her voice now, "Fainting is not a sign for being fine!"

"Molly, let it go! I'm fine." Sherlock snapped. His breathing was becoming faster, Molly took note of, and she could see the sweat beads developing along his forehead. _'Take it down a notch, Molly,' _she told herself, _'The last thing you want is to stress him out.'_

"Sherlock, please," She tried again in a softer tone, "just listen to me."

"You're just as bad as John," He went on, ignoring her completely, "The two of you don't trust me, is that it? Why won't you believe me when I say I'm fine, hmm? Instead, you just want to linger on it. My health is of no concern of yours, Molly Hooper, nor anyone else but me."

"But it is my concern, Sherlock."  
"No, it isn't!" Sherlock then sprung up from the couch and started to pace the living room. Molly rose up as well and just kept her eyes on him, knowing exactly that this could lead to another fainting spell.

"Take the medicine," she pleaded, "or at least tell me what you are feeling. I want to help."  
"With what?" Sherlock yelled, tossing his hands up into the air, "Molly, stop trying to take care of me while you're ahead! You don't even know what's wrong with me!"  
"Do you?" she fired back, "You know, the least you could say is thank you."

"For what?! Thank you for going behind my back and illegally obtain medication for an illness I quiet possibly might not have?!" he challenged, subconsciously griping at his chest, "Rather rambunctious of you, Molly; I never took you for someone who'd break the law but then again you did date a criminal mastermind."

Molly felt the anger building up inside her. He may just be trying to push her away right now, but Sherlock had crossed a line; "Don't you dare bring that up right now!" she snapped, "This has nothing to do with Jim Moriarty!"

"Ooo, perhaps he's behind my mystery illness," Sherlock childishly taunted, unsuccessfully trying to hide a few coughs, "Maybe he poisoned me while I was dissecting that video message. Quick, call Mycroft! Tell him that no one is to touch that dreaded footage; the drive it was on is poisoned!"

Ready to scold him for his lack of seriousness on the issue, Molly was clenching her fists in anger. She was about to fight back when she noticed that Sherlock's eyes were unfocused and a bit hazy. His coughing was picking up and he was rubbing at his forehead now as if to eliminate some form of pain. "Sherlock," she said, taking a few steps toward him, "you...you should slow it down a bit."

"Oh for God's sake, I am perfectly fine!" Sherlock yelled as loud as he could, "There is nothing wrong with me, why can't you understand that? You of all people, Molly, should understand it! I...I trust you and...I trusted my life to you and now I...I can't..." His eyes started to blink rapidly as he griped the sides of his head. The room was spinning and all of his thoughts were jumbling around in his skull.

"Sherlock," Molly said, her voice sounding to Sherlock as if he were underwater.

"I-I'm fine." He breathed out, "Absolutely...com-completely...Molly."

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he began to fall to the ground. Molly caught him just before he hit anything and she slowly brought him down with her to sit on the floor.

"Sherlock," she called to him, cradling his limp body in her arms, "Sherlock can you hear me?" She patted his cheek a few times, causing him to moan slightly; his skin was too warm to the touch. "Come on, let's get you to bed." she said, placing a quick kiss on his forehead, "You need your rest, Sherlock. Come on."

Molly lifted his limp right arm up and draped it over her shoulder and they slowly rose to their feet. Sherlock groaned in his feverish state, but otherwise remained practically unconscious as she supported him down the hall toward the bedroom. His head rolled onto Molly's shoulder as she tried to open the door with her free hand. She placed a kiss on top of his head and adjusted her hold around his waist.

"You're going to be alright," she whispered into his curls, half to assure herself, "You're going to get better."

Once the door was open, Molly immediately laid Sherlock on the bed. She adjusted his head atop the pillows then maneuvered his body so that he was laying flat on his back. It was unnerving how much he resembled a corpse, lying there in his suit so very still. His right arm hung off the side of the bed while his left rested comfortably across his stomach. Sherlock was always a pale man, but now there seemed to be a touch of sickly gray in his complexion. It seemed that right at that moment, Sherlock had begun to look ill.

Not wanting to linger on the image anymore, Molly quickly got to work removing Sherlock's day clothes. She tossed the shoes aside first and then removed the suit jacket, only untucking the blue button up he was wearing; she didn't want any part of his skin to be exposed to the cold air if it weren't necessary. Molly then very carefully moved his body onto it's side for just a moment so to pull the covers up around him. Once he was under the covers and breathing peacefully, Molly kissed his cheek then changed into her pajamas. All she wanted right now was to climb into bed with him and hold his body in her arms as if that were the solution to their problems.

"Molly," Sherlock breathed out a few minutes later.

"Shh, it's okay," Molly replied, climbing into bed and resting a comforting hand over his heart, "I'm here."

Sherlock merely coughed in reply and placed his hand atop hers as he started to drift off again.

"Sherlock, you have to get better, okay." Molly whispered, kissing his cheek.

"I'll...the medicine...morning." he mumbled in reply, but sleep had clearly already overtaken him.

Molly curled up as close to Sherlock's body as she possibly could, resting her head on his chest. His heartbeat echoed through her ears at a steady beat as she too started to drift off. "Please," she whispered, "Prove me wrong and don't be ill. Take care of yourself, Sherlock Holmes, please. For me."

_**Thank you for reading and for your patience between updates. I will be revisiting the Moriarty footage in later chapters; that wasn't just a one of comment, I assure you. Please let me know what you think as comments and/or reviews help immensely in the writing process.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	5. Chapter 4: Disaster Written on My Cheek

_**Chapter 4: Disaster Written on My Cheek**_

It was late morning when Sherlock awoke the following day. His head was pounding, almost as if some invisible force was pressing down upon his skull. Chills ran up and down his spine despite the fact that he was fully dressed in his clothes from the day before. Everything hurt and it felt as if his entire body was pulling itself apart from the inside. Pulling the covers around his fragile frame as tight as possible, Sherlock attempted to block out these awful feelings by escaping to his mind palace. Unfortunately, everything in his mind was clouded by a feverish haze, making him incapable to lock himself away from the outside word. So, with a defeated groan, Sherlock opened his eyes and very slowly began to climb out of bed.

The bedroom was dark and tranquil. Dust particles floated around in the sun beams peeping through the curtains and the light coming from the cracked open bedroom door, dancing through the air to some unheard tune. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed for a moment to watch their dance and attempt to catch his breath. His eyes, normally shining there rare mixture of blue and green, were dulled by the fever and his vision was starting to blur. This was all too much, too much for him to handle while in this state. What bothered him the most, as he watched the dust dance, was that he had no explanation as to why he felt this way. Why was he ill and with what? Is this a temporary glitch in his system or something long term? Why won't it go away and will it ever?

"Stupid," Sherlock breathed out in a groan as he carefully brought himself up into a standing position, "Stupid, stupid...transport." He wavered in place for a bit as he tried to find a center of balance. Running his hands over his face, the genius let out a deep sigh then headed toward the bedroom door.

As he neared the opening, Sherlock could hear the pitter patter of Molly's socked feet walking across the kitchen._'A quick pace,'_, he noted, _'Not in a hurry, but faster than normal. Worried? Obviously. About me? There's no reason for her to be, honestly.' _

Of course, he told himself that there was no need for Molly to fret about his health; he would go on telling her that it was nothing, just his transport acting up. But even he couldn't keep a lie like that going for too long. He knew something was wrong and he knew that it would cause worry in not just Molly, but John and Mary and Lestrade, hell, even Mycroft.

Sherlock Holmes knew he was sick, very sick.

His world begun to spin again and Sherlock couldn't help but lean on the door frame for support. Exhaustion was hitting him like a ton of bricks, even though he had spent little to none of his energy; after all, he had just gotten out of bed! How exhausted could his body be? Turning his body away from the door, Sherlock pressed his back against the wall and slipped down to into sitting position on the ground. Perhaps down there, he could gain back some strength.

"Damn it," He breathed out as he closed his eyes, "Damn it, damn it, Goddamn it." His body felt heavy and, with each passing moment, Sherlock felt like slipping back into that comfortable state of sleep. '_Only a few more minutes'_, he told himself as he focused in on relaxing his breathing_, 'I'll be fine after then. I am fine. I have to keep telling myself I'm fine. I'm fine.'_

"Sherlock?" came the clear sound of Molly's sweat voice through the hazy mantra playing through his mind.

"Y-yes," he managed to reply, trying his damnedest to sound alright, "Molly, I'm...I'm awake." He didn't budge an inch as the door opened all the way and Molly walked in; too much work for his fatigued body to muster at the moment. Somehow though, he managed to open his heavy eyelids just as she was knelling down in front of him. "Good morning," she said, a quaint smile upon her lips.

"Is it?" he asked, "Judging by the-the sunlight coming into the bedroom, it must be...or perhaps nearing, um, noon?"

To Sherlock's surprise, Molly gave out a small giggle; "Sherlock Holmes, I do believe that is the first time you've spoken to me in something other than a complete thought." she teased, taking his hands into her own, "You must still be feverish."

"And you must be playing hooky from work," he quipped, clearly trying to avoid the subject of his health, "It's Friday and you should have left for the lab hours ago."

"Well, maybe I called in because I felt that I needed to stay here with you."

"Why?"  
"You're the genius, Sherlock, can't you figure it out?"  
"Molly, if you decided to not go to work out of some need to watch over me, then allow me to say that your action was in vain."

"Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake, you are ill and I want to take care you. Is that a crime?"

He started to protest, thinking of some other clever response, but then quickly silenced himself;_ 'She can see you, don't lie to her. Besides, you're glad she's here.' _Instead of putting up a front, Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and intertwined his long fingers with hers: "No, not a crime," he replied in a sweet tone that he only used with her, "just...unnecessary."

"Unnecessary." Molly repeated as she moved to be curled up beside him, "Well, I'm sorry to be such an inconvenience to you."

"I didn't say that," Sherlock cooed, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her body in close to his, "You are not, and never will be, an inconvenience to me."

Molly let out a content sigh as she rested her head on his shoulder: "Then why don't you ever tell me the truth?" she said in a meek whisper, "Sherlock, I can tell that you are unwell, why don't you just say it?"

Sherlock took a moment to sort through his thoughts. The answer to her question laid bare in his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to say it. Was it pride? Decidedly not, but it could very well be the reason. Sherlock knew he was ill, he just didn't want to admit it.

"Perhaps your right," he decided to reply as he studied their interlocked hands, "You are always right, Molly Hooper, always."

"Okay, now I know your not feeling alright," she said, "You are being too sentimental right now."

"Don't be daft," he scoffed, successfully stifling a small cough,"You, more than anyone, know that the idea of sentiment is not completely foreign to me. John thinks it is, even after all I've done for him; Not that I'm admitting to doing anything specific for him for the sake of sentiment. I'm only just saying that, when the time is necessary..."

"Your rambling and trying to change the subject," Molly stated, giving him the kind of look a mother might give to a child whose just been caught in the act of trouble making.

"What subject?" Sherlock replied, maintaining his innocence, "I was unaware there was any particular subject being brought-"

Before he could continue, Molly put her hand up, the finger tips just brushing against his chapped lips. Her eyes, full of genuine concern and care, locked with his and the air seemed to still. Sherlock hoped to whatever deity above that his frail state was hidden from his sweet Molly, but he knew better than that; Molly could always see him, the real him.

"Sherlock, answer me honestly," she said, moving her hand to cup the side of his pale face, "what's going on? You...you gave me quite a fright last night."

"Apologizes," he sighed, acting as if there wasn't a care in the world as he leaned his head back against the wall, "but it wasn't like I had any control over passing out."

"Sherlock, please don't...don't be like that right now." Molly said, a twinge of anger rising in her tone, "I'm worried about you."

"I don't want you to worry about me." he breathed out, allowing his eyes to close once again; The fatigue was getting to him again. Sherlock could feel himself being pulled back into that comfortable darkness of sleep, but Molly's soft touch against his cheek kept him on the brink of the conscious world._'Stay awake,' _he told himself, _'She can't see how weak you are.'_

"Sherlock, talk to me." he could hear her say almost as if her voice was off somewhere in the distance, "Sherlock? Sherlock can you hear me?"

"Mhm," he moaned in reply along with a small nod. A painful headache had begun to pound against his skull, adding to the discomfort running through his bones.

He needed to rest.

He needed to fall back into that peaceful oblivion of sleep.

He just needed to get better.

Just as his head started to fall to his chest, Sherlock was startled back awake by Molly giving his cheek a slap (it was more of a firm pat but the effect was the same).

"Sorry, sorry," she said as he blinked at her in surprise, " I thought you were passing out again and I didn't mean to-"

"No, no, I'm, um, I'm glad you did." Sherlock replied, slightly coming back to his senses, "I was...drifting."

Molly nervously chewed on her lower lip as she ran her hand through Sherlock's greasy curls: "You should, um, have a bath." she stated, rising to her feet, "It might make you feel a bit more comfortable."

"Maybe," he mumbled, taking her outstretched hands into his, "Molly, I-" Sherlock stopped himself as he locked eyes with her once more. He felt a pain rising in his chest, almost as if a feeling of guilt was corroding his heart: guilt about falling weak to something as mundane as sickness, guilt about not telling Molly about all of this sooner. All he could do right now was stare at her; this woman, the one who mattered and the one who always cared, would never let him down or leave him to crumble.

She cared for him, even in this fragile state.

She always cared.

"What is it?" Molly asked, helping him stand. Without uttering a single word, Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and placed a deep kiss on her unsuspecting lips. She was shocked at first but then let herself give in to the romantic gesture, placing her hands on his chest.

"Thank you for staying with me today," he whispered as they slowly parted after a few minutes.

"You're welcome," she replied, "and now, I'm going to run you a bath."

"You always know how to keep up the mood," Sherlock grumbled, wrapping an arm around her shoulders (partially to keep himself upright).

"Well, sorry, but your health has to take precedence over snogging," she said with a giggle. Sherlock let out a breathy laugh in return which, unfortunately, erupted into a small coughing fit.

The content air about the room suddenly drifted away as Molly lead him to the bathroom. She was worried now, more then she had been before. He was having trouble standing on his own, unable to keep himself awake for a short period of time, not to mention the 'drifting'. Something was terribly wrong and it was hurting Molly to not know what it was.

As they entered the bathroom, Molly helped Sherlock to take a sit on the toilet. Instantly, Sherlock leaned toward the left and rested his head against the wall as the small coughing fit finished up. Molly, unable to bear the sight of her ill lover, quickly turned around to start the water.

"I can run my own bath, Molly." Sherlock breathed out in between small hacks, "I am a grown man."

"Yes and you were nearly on the brink of passing out seconds ago." she replied, testing the temperature with her fingers, "Oh-Oh God, I didn't even think of that."

"What?" he asked, catching his breath.

"You passing out in the bath."

"Molly,I can assure you, I will be fine."

"Yeah, of course. I'm being stupid. Sorry."

Very much to her surprise, Molly was pulled back into Sherlock's lap by him wrapping his arms around her waist. "If your that concerned, then you could always climb into the bath with me." Sherlock teased as he placed a kissed on her neck

Molly just gave him a playful roll of her eyes then gently cupped his face in her hands: "As tempting as that sounds, I don't think it would be the wisest idea." she replied, kissing his forehead, "I'm going to get you some water and, when, your finished in here we can talk about your medicine."

"Hmm, alright." he said, beginning the process of unbuttoning his shirt, "If you say so." They exchanged a quick peck on the lips then Molly stood up.

"I'll be in the kitchen if you need me." she said as Sherlock slowly began to undress.

"I'm sure I'll be fine." he replied.

Molly simply nodded then made her exit. Just before leaving the room completely, she lingered in the doorway for a moment. She took in the sight of Sherlock's pale torso and how prominent his ribs were. He had always been thin, but this...this took her by surprise. That worry building her heart only grew and she couldn't take her eyes off of him, in fear that he would disappear the moment she looked away.

"Sherlock?" she managed to say.

"Yes?" he asked, stepping into the tub.

"I love you."

"Molly, you've drawn me up a bath not sent me to my death. Please stop acting as if the worst is going to happen in the short time I'm cleaning up."

"...I still love you."

"And I you."

Molly gave him a small smile then headed back out toward the kitchen, shutting the bathroom door as she left. When she was sure that she was out of Sherlock's earshot, she quickly pulled out her phone and placed a call; a call that she should've sent made last night when Sherlock passed out.

"Hello?"  
"Remember how you said to call you if something was wrong?"

"Molly, what is it? Has Sherlock finally brunt down half the flat?"  
"John...something's wrong."

"...My break is at 2. Can you manage a few hours?"

* * *

John trudged up the stairs of 221b with his medical bag firmly gripped in his left hand. He had only a short window of time before he was due back at the clinic, but he was sure to make the most of it. After all, to him, this was a family matter. Sherlock may not fall under that category by blood or official bond, but he was John's family, one might say his brother even. Too much had corresponded between them for their relationship to be anything less than that.

"Hello?" he called out as he neared the door to the living room.

"John," came the relieved reply from Molly as she came to greet him. She embraced him at the top of the stairs and John happily returned the friendly gesture. "Thank you for coming." she said when they parted, "I hope it's not too much to ask."

"No trouble at all," he said with a nod, "When you called, I figured it must be urgent. Where's Sherlock?"

"Sleeping, thank God," Molly sighed, "I gave him some medicine about an hour or so ago and then he knocked out almost instantly; he had no idea you'd be stopping by."

"The medicine Mary procured for you last night from the clinic?" John teased, causing Molly to blush.

"Sorry about that," she confessed, "I didn't really know what I was doing."

"No, I think you did." John went on, "You knew that Sherlock would never agree to a doctor's appointment so you took the next step. Next time though, just ask me. I'm not completely okay with my wife forging prescriptions."

Molly nervously chewed her lower lip nervously for a few seconds: "John, I...I should've called you earlier. He's sick and I thought-I foolishly thought it would just pass. But it hasn't and now, I think he's only getting worse and I have no idea what to do."

"Hey, hey, don't fret," John replied, setting a comforting hand on her shoulder, "It's a good thing you called me. After my visit yesterday, I could see that Sherlock wasn't 100% himself. To be honest, I didn't think much of it either; I had hoped that if he was ill, Sherlock would've told me. Guess not."

"Why is he trying to hide this, John? Does he think we're going to think less of him or something?"

"His pride is a force to be reckoned with, Molly. Sherlock just doesn't want to come off as..."

"Human?"  
"Exactly."

Molly just let out a heavy sigh and ran her fingers through her hair; "What if this is something out of our hands?" she said, her voice full of sadness, "John, if he is dangerously ill, promise me you'll help him."

"Molly, of course I will," John replied, "you needn't worry about that. For now, however, let's just try to figure out what's wrong with our Sherlock. Where is he?"

Molly motioned her head toward the living room; "I better let Mrs. Hudson know something up," she sighed, heading down the stairs, "Better she know now rather than later." Once she was gone, John made his way into the living room to see his patient.

There, lying on his stomach halfway underneath the blankets, sprawled across the couch was Sherlock. His cheek was pressed against the old Union Jack pillow with his curls hanging low in front of his eyes. His left arm was hanging lazily off the side of the couch, his fingertips scrapping against the floor. He was dressed in that outfit John immediately recognized as the one Sherlock wore while undercover in that drug den all those months ago. In short, Sherlock Holmes looked more like a member of his homeless network than the world's only consulting detective.

The former army doctor knelt down beside the sleeping detective, setting his med-bag down nearby. He could hear Sherlock's ragged inhales and exhales and mentally took note of it. He also noticed the beads of sweat dripping down Sherlock's ghostly white forehead. Despite that, though, the detective was shivering.

"Obviously there's a fever and some form of infection in the lungs, but Molly mentioned fainting on the phone." John muttered, picking up Sherlock's arm to test the pulse, "Come on, Sherlock, just tell us what's wrong. Leave the mystery's to your professional life, alright?"

As soon as John's hand landed on his pulse point, Sherlock began to stir; "Mmm," he groaned, fidgeting slightly, "Jawn?"

"Yeah, Sherlock, it's me." John said, going about his business, "Molly called me."

"Said not to" Sherlock slurred in reply, "I said...not to worry."

"Yeah well, she has good reason to be. Your fever is pretty high now."

"Sh-she knew...dangers."

John furrowed his brow in confusion and looked at Sherlock's face: "What dangers?" he asked.

Sherlock didn't reply; in fact, he didn't seem to hear John's question at all. His eyes were open now about halfway, but they were extremely unfocused and hazy as they darted about the room. There was something off about this; this was new and slightly frighting to John. Sherlock wasn't being clear and that was never a good sign. Had this illness moved to that brilliant brain or was this the fever talking? Either way, none of this was sitting well for John.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" he asked, shaking his friend's shoulder a bit, but it was no use.

"Moriarty...had to go," Sherlock continued to mumble, almost incoherently now, as he began to cur himself into a ball, "Fell. I fell."

"Alright, Sherlock, your scaring me now. Are you awake?"  
"John...sorry. So sorry."

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"  
"Mary, not Mary...Murder...I...murderer...I shot him..."

"Sherlock, do you know where you are right now?"

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut and he completely curled into himself as he started to shake: "GOD, STOP!" he yelled,"TH-THE...HOUND, I-I DIDN'T...GOD, NO!"

"Sherlock, you're safe," John said, gripping onto both Sherlock's shoulders, "You're home in 221b. There's no..."

"AHHH," Sherlock suddenly screamed out in pain, "JOHN, I'M SHOT!...MOLLY!...MOLLY, SAVE ME!..."

Unable to think of anything more ethical to do, John quickly stood up and then gave the man a violent shake. Almost instantly, Sherlock blinked his eyes back into focus and it seemed that feverish, trance state he was in had ended. His wide eyes looked around in fear, like a child who had just awoken from a nightmare, as a coughing fit erupted from his chest.

"J-John," he stuttered, gripping onto his friend's brown jacket for dear life, "Wha-what happened? Where...where was I?"

"You were here, in 221b."John sadly admitted, "Sherlock your fever is way too high to be just be treated at home. We need to..." The doctor became very stern as his eyes caught the glimpse of the line of scarlet dripping from the corner of Sherlock's mouth: "God, Sherlock...what's happening to you?"

_**Thank you for being patient between updates. Life is hectic and writers block is no fun. Hope this chapter made up for the wait, although it didn't end up on a good note there. Don't fret, I won't keep torturing Sherlock with illness; there will be answers. For now, thank you for reading and please let me know what you think. Feedback is always appreciated.**_

_**Until the next time, much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	6. Chapter 5: Your Cause is My Effect

_**Chapter 5: Your Cause is My Effect**_

"We're just going to take him back and see what's the matter."

"Don't worry, this won't be long. Just a few more tests."

"We may need him to stay overnight. We'll let you know."

"He's sleeping now, miss. We'll let you know when you can go back."

For hours, Molly stayed put in the waiting room of the A&amp;E. Her heart was going a hundred beats per second as her stomach kept turning upside down and then back again. It was hell, to say the least, sitting there and feeling utterly useless. There was no one to tell her what was going on down that white hallway where Sherlock was escorted to. One nurse kept coming out, telling her that all was well and there was nothing to fret over, but Molly knew better. She wasn't new to hospitals; she worked in one, for Christ sake. Their_ 'everything's alright we'll keep you updated' _facade was a complete sham in her eyes. She knew something was wrong. After all, she saw how Sherlock looked on their way over here.

She had heard him scream her name and instantly she bolted, mid-conversation, from Mrs. Hudson's flat back up the stairs. When she reached the doorway of the living room, her heart sank to the pit of her stomach at the mere sight of Sherlock. He was pale as a ghost and breathing heavily with one arm limply tossed over John's shoulders. His eyes were unfocused and there was blood running from the corner of his mouth as he coughed rather violently and non-stop. The man was feverish, could barely stand if it hadn't been for John, and it broke Molly's heart. Here was the man she adored, ill and barely mobile, struggling before her and there was nothing she could do.

"Molly, help me get him downstairs," John had said as he wrapped a supportive arm around Sherlock's middle, "We've got to get him to hospital." Molly went to Sherlock's side and placed his other arm over her shoulder. Sherlock groaned incoherently as they made their way to the car, but Molly swore he was saying her name.

Once the two of them were settled into John's car and were well on their way, Sherlock's health took another turn for the worst. He had been laid out across the back seat with his head resting in Molly's lap, just looking up at her through fever-glazed eyes. He tried to speak but everything that came out as muddled and incomplete. He was fighting with the little strength he had managed to maintain; Sherlock Holmes wasn't going to let a fever and a cough tear him down.

"It's alright, Sherlock," Molly cooed, running her fingers through his curls, "We're going to get you some help." Sherlock's eyes met hers for just a moment, but then he slipped into a state of unconsciousness, completely limp and unresponsive. Panic rushed through Molly as she called out his name; "Sherlock? Sherlock, please wake up!" she begged, "Sherlock, stay with me!"

It was all a blur to her after that: pulling up to the A&amp;E, the doctors taking Sherlock back, John assuring her that everything was going to be fine. Nothing had made sense. And now, as she waited in this cold room, Molly felt nothing but guilt; guilt that she hadn't called John sooner, guilt that she hadn't acted quick enough to help Sherlock, guilt that there was nothing she could do at this moment. All that was left was to wait for word and it was the worst feeling in the world.

As she sat in the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, Molly contemplated who she should contact about Sherlock's health. (_'He may want to keep this health ordeal a secret, but his friends have a right to know if something is gravely wrong.'_) John and Mary obviously already knew, but there must be others who'd want to know about the consulting detective's state. She pulled out Sherlock's cell-she managed to slip it out of his pocket before the doctors took him away-and thoughtfully went through the contacts to figure out who to inform:

The obvious one was Mycroft; _'Next of kin should be alerted of any medical emergency,_ the medical professional side of her brain told her, but she then quickly decided against it. She didn't know the eldest Holmes brother all that well personally, but she definitely knew that he would be the last person Sherlock would want to see.

Mrs. Hudson, perhaps; surely the elderly, practically segregate mother to Sherlock, would want to know what was going on. _'No,' _Molly decided, _'she would make such a fuss and nobody wants to deal with her hysterics right now.' _

Lestrade, then;_ 'No, probably not.' _Sherlock didn't even want him to know that he and Molly were in a relationship. Her calling the detective inspector right now would only lead to questions. Not intrusive questions, really, but Molly didn't feel like answering them all the same.

All of Sherlock's other contacts were members of his Homeless network; was the man really so limited in friends?

With a heavy sigh, Molly put the phone away and leaned back in her chair. As she stared up at the bland, white ceiling, Molly's mind wandered back to much happier memories. Sherlock would critique on her not staying focused in the now; "Don't let your mind wander, Molly," he would say, "The human brain is your most precious tool so you mustn't fill it with frivolous nothings." A smile grew across her face as Sherlock's voice echoed through her mind. She wanted to hear that voice now, when she was feeling so down and worthless.

"Molly," the sound of John's voice immediately brought her back to the present. She shot right up out of the chair and waited for him to approach her. He was coming from the hall, the same one where the doctors had taken Sherlock down. The furrowed brow and overall look of stress on John's face had Molly fearing the worst; she almost started crying, but that voice in the back of her head told her to keep it all together. _'You don't know anything yet. Just breathe.'_

"John," was all she managed to say once he had reached her. They stood toe-to-toe, both filling the space with tension; one in fear of what the other might say while the other is dreading to say anything at all.

"He's, um, he's okay." John finally let out with a heavy sigh, "Conscious, but he's still running a fever. It's gone down though, thankfully. Did the nurse come and tell you he was resting?"

Molly couldn't speak, so she just gave him a nod. What else could she do? Her heart had sunk to the pit of her stomach and some many emotions were rattling around in her mind that if she were to speak, she would only cry. Still there was some hope: _'He's okay.' _she thought, '_Okay is good...isn't it?'_

"Good, good," John went on, running a hand through his hair, "Um, he'll probably have to stay the night. Since his numbers are all off, he needs to get his body back into a stable, erm, state. The doctor's let me stay though out the diagnostic tests, not sure how I pulled that one off, but yeah. Anyway Sherlock woke up for a moment back there. He, um, he was really out of it; the mumbling, asking where we were...it was hard to watch. That fever was taking a toll, but once we got that under control...He fell back asleep."

Molly just nodded again. She had never seen John this flustered before. No, not flustered...upset. John was thoroughly upset. He was worried about his best friend's condition; so worried that his strong, military wall of emotion that he'd bring up during times like these was breaking down. In fact, Molly didn't even know if John had put it up. This was a new side to her, and she didn't know how to respond.

"I'm glad you didn't seem him back there," he continued, but Molly knew he wasn't really talking to her; this was something he just needed to get out now, "Sherlock, I mean, I've seen him in a sickly state before; I was there when he got shot and rode in the bloody ambulance. But this was different. He was moaning, not in pain, but in...distress; it was like watching a child fighting through a nightmare.I've never seen him so helpless, Molly, and-and there was barely a thing I could do about it. "

"Tell me what's wrong with Sherlock," Molly whispered, setting a hand on his shoulder. John gave her a look that could only mean that he didn't have the heart to tell her the details, so she tried something else: "Can I see him?"

"I can't give you that clearance," John regretfully answered, "One of the nurses will be out shortly though; they promised me that before I came out here to talk to you. I wanted to be the one to tell what happened back there; thought you'd like to hear it from a friend."

Molly gave him a grateful smile"Is he...going to be alright, John?"

"Yes, in time," he replied, "A long time, I think, but the doctor's here are hopeful."

"What do you think?" she asked, trusting John's word over anyone else; no one knew Sherlock Holmes, like John Watson.

"It's...it's nothing serious at the moment." he said with a sigh, "The doctor's are going to come out here and tell you that it's a real bad case of the flu and that the only reason he's in this condition is because he hid it from us and well-Never mind that now. Look, I've got to be honest with you, Molly. In my medical opinion, it looks more like pneumonia. Still though, that doesn't quite explain the delirium."

"Pneumonia, well that's-that's not awful," Molly said, trying to convince herself that all will be well now, "I mean, Sherlock's still ill and pneumonia isn't something to take lightly, but-but he's okay. You said it yourself, John, he's okay or-or at least he's going to be."

She then started to feel light headed, as if the entire situation was just now coming down on her. Her eyes watered and small hiccups escaped her lips as she continued to speak; "H-He'll be upset because he wont be able to go out on cases. Oh God, Sherlock will throw a fit." she went on, running a hand through her hair, "W-We should tell Lestrade-No, what am I thinking? I already decided to not call him so why would I change my mind?"

"Molly, Molly," John said, setting his comforting hands on her shoulders, "Listen to me: Sherlock will be fine. We just need to take this one step at a time, alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, sorry," Molly breathed out, taking a seat back in her chair, "It's just that...Was there more we could've done, John?"

With a heavy sigh, John sat down beside her: "We can't focus on 'what might have been' or 'what could've happened if'," he replied, "We can only think about the now."

"That's a very Sherlock thing for you to say." she said with a meek smile.

"Yeah, well, your boyfriend's rubbed off on me a bit." John chuckled, "Oh, sorry. I forgot you and Sherlock don't do 'titles'."

"Did he tell you that? It doesn't bother me; I could care less. Sherlock seems to take it very personal for some reason."

"Ah, another mystery into the feelings of Sherlock Holmes."

Molly chuckled and looked down in her lap. It was quiet again and that waiting Hell had returned, but Molly didn't feel as helpless now. John was there, bringing her comfort just by being present.

"The emergency contacts for a Mr. William S. Holmes." a nurse, not the one from before, announced as she came into the waiting room.

"That would be us," John replied, wrapping a comforting arm around Molly's shoulders as they both stood.

"Ah, you are Mr. John H. Watson then, yes?" she asked, looking over the papers on the clipboard in her hands, "Mr. Holmes' GP?"

"That's right," John said, "and this is Ms. Molly E. Hooper. She should be listed there as well."

"Um, yes as Mr. Holmes'...primary," the nurse confirmed, "May I ask the relation, ma'am? Mr. Holmes didn't seem to fill that part out."

Molly and John exchanged a quick look; even on paper, Sherlock didn't want to 'title' their relationship. "I'm his girlfriend," she said.

"Okay then, if you'll both follow me I'll escort you to Mr. Holmes' room." the nurse gave a small motion with her hand and then lead Molly and John down the white hallway. "He's in a private room and resting," the nurse went on speaking, "Seems like a bad case of the flu, but thankfully you brought him in now before he had got any worse."

Molly was about to bring up John's alternate diagnosis of pneumonia, but her friend quickly spoke before she could even get a word out: "When will be able to go home?" John asked.

"He'll need to stay overnight, but he can go home straight away in the morning." the nurse replied, then she turned and gave Molly a quick smile, "Don't worry, Ms. Hooper, he'll be right as rain in no time."

"Er, um, thank you." Molly replied rather awkwardly, giving John a confused look. The former army doctor just shrugged and they then continued to walk in silence.

"Here we are then," the nurse said as they reached a partly open door near the end of the hall, "He may very well sleep through the night, but you can sit beside him if you ,Doctor Watson, there are a few questions we have for you regarding Mr. Holmes' medical history.

"Sure thing. Molly, go on in," John said, gently pushing her toward the door. "I'll be back shortly."

Molly didn't even give him a nod. She stepped into the room as if her feet were being pulled in by some mysterious force. She was barely aware that the door had closed; her mind was too focused on being with feet came to a halt though as she laid her eyes on the pale, fragile figure laying under the coarse sheets of the hospital bed, arms at his side and being so incredibly still; the only sign of life was that of his chest rhythmically rising and falling.

"Sherlock," she breathed out as she took a seat right at the edge of the bed, "Oh Sherlock, look what's happened to you."

He was fast asleep and breathing steadily, more steadily then Molly had heard in awhile. There was an IV attached at his arm, pumping fluids into his body, as well as a cannula hooked up in his couldn't help but reach out and brush a few greasy curls off of his forehead, no longer too warm to the touch. A blanket had been pulled up to his chest but his arms laid atop it at his sides. She took one of his hands into both of hers and placed a kiss on his looked, strangely, at peace with all of his features so at ease and his gentle breathing. Despite the medical equipment surround him, Sherlock just seemed to be relaxed.

"Don't scare me like that, do you hear?" she playfully scolded at a volume just above a whisper, "I can't handle it." As she stroked his arm, a faint smile grew across her lips: "The nurse outside had me say that I'm your girlfriend." she said with a giggle, "John told me that you hate that word. Well, actually, he said you don't like 'titles'. I don't mind it, you know, but I really don't think you should be defensive about it. Never mind, I'm just babbling; You'd tell me stop, if you were awake. Are...are you awake, Sherlock?"

She grazed her fingers across the small injection point the IV was hooked up in then brought her hand back to hold his: "I miss you," she said, the smile now gone, "I know that's silly to say, but it's the truth. For a moment, while we were in the car over here, I thought...I thought I was going to loose you. You looked so lost and sick and...Sherlock, I'm sorry I couldn't help you. You needed me and I let you down. Please,just...just wake up. For me? Please?"

Unable to keep the emotions at bay, Molly closed her eyes and hung her head low to let the tears fall freely down her cheeks. She held Sherlock's hand tightly as she continued to place kisses upon it; "I love you, Sherlock," she whispered, "So very much. Please wake up. Please."

"Molly, I'd really wish you'd stop acting like I'm dead."

At the sound of that horse baritone voice, Molly's eyes shot wide open. She lifted her head so that to face her lover. A sly, half-mouth smirk was upon Sherlock's lips as his eyes stared softly at her.

"Hello," he said, plain as day, and Molly could only just shake her head.

"You impossible man," she breathed out, leaning forward and wrapping her arms around him in an embrace. A bit taken back at first, but then fine, Sherlock held her in return to the best of his ability. He smiled as Molly placed a soft kiss on his cheek. "Where have you been?" he whispered into her hair.

"The waiting room," she replied, nuzzling her forehead against his, "I wasn't allowed to come back here with you, but John was."

"Should've told them you were my partner," he said, running his hands up and down her back.

"Oh, so you'll use partner but not girlfriend." Molly stated, "Good to know."

Sherlock furrowed his brow slightly but then relaxed as Molly nuzzled back beside him again. He held her close as if she were the most precious item in the world (which to him, she was). It was the small coughing fit that erupted from Sherlock's chest that made them pull apart, otherwise, Molly was sure they could've stayed like that forever. She quickly reached over to the bedside table and poured him a glass of water from the conveniently filled pitcher.

"Do you think you can sit up or do you want some help?" she asked, but Sherlock just waved a hand through the air.

"I'm not...not an invalid." he said, catching his breath, "Just...sick." Sherlock then slowly propped himself up on his elbows.

"I think that's the first time I've heard you actually admit to being sick," Molly said, bringing the plastic straw to his chapped lips.

"I never denied it," he replied, "Just never really said anything about it."

Reluctantly, he accepted the drink. A gnawing feeling filled the pit of her stomach for a moment; this didn't feel right, taking care of Sherlock like this. Yes, it was necessary, but Sherlock was such a strong, independent man; He didn't enjoy being cared for. All Molly could think about was how long and troublesome his recovery will be. How was she going to take care of him when he wouldn't allow it?

"When can I go home?" he asked, resting back against the pillows.

"The morning, hopefully." Molly replied, setting the cup back down, "You just need to rest through the night and get your numbers back up to par."

"That's tedious," he mumbled, already slowly slipping back into a relaxed sleep. As his eyes fell closed, Molly started to rise, but Sherlock placing his hand on thigh caused her to stop.

"What's the diagnosis?" he said, not reopening his eyes.

"Bad case of the flu," she replied, not 100% ready to give him John's unofficial diagnosis."

"Hmm, wrong," Sherlock breathed out, "But close. I was betting on pneumonia."

"Betting?" Molly asked, annoyed by his poor choice of words.

"Well, I say betting. What I really mean is I had diagnosed myself awhile back and was pretty certain I hit the nail on the head." he stated, taping a light beat on her thigh, "Either I was wrong or these doctors are idiots; I'm going to side with the latter."

"H-How long did you know?"  
"That I was ill? A few weeks before the fainting incident in the kitchen, but I was fine."

"Clearly, you weren't." Molly stated, getting a tad flustered with his nonchalant attitude.

Sherlock opened his eyes a bit then studied her features: "You're upset with me."he sighed, "Molly, if you are about to say that I-"

"Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" Molly suddenly snapped, "This could've been bad, Sherlock, really bad. I was terrified. You were unconscious in my arms, running a high fever and not responding and I thought...I actually thought I was loosing you."

"But you didn't." Sherlock replied in a somber tone.

"That does not excuse the fact that I could have." she said, taking his hand into hers, but not daring to make eye contact, "Sherlock, please don't push this to the side. This is serious. John thinks that you could very well have pneumonia and-Just promise me you'll fight this. I won't judge you, if that's your fear; people get sick, it happens. I want to help you but to do that, I have to know what's going on."

"Molly..."

"Sherlock, promise me that you won't shut me or John out anymore. "  
"Molly..."

"Promise me now and I promise I will help you; You know that I will."

"Love, please look at me."

Hearing Sherlock use a pet name (which never happens), Molly quickly turned her gaze to be locked with his own. He was exhausted, Molly could see it in his eyes, and was hanging on to a state of awake by just a small bit. But there was a comforting smile on his lips, one that made Molly's heart melt. She intertwined her fingers with his and sighed heavily as he spoke:

"I promise you that I will fight." he said, never faltering his gaze, "I promise never to shut you out or keep any secrets from you. I promise you anything you'd like, my Molly Hooper." He then brought her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her knuckles; "Because I love you and I won't leave you."

"You're not just saying that to drop the subject, are you?" she asked, giving him a teasing smile as her cheeks turned a bright shade of red.

"Or it's the medication talking." he replied with a shrug.

They both gave out a small laugh, knowing full well that what Sherlock was saying was wholly true. Without even thinking about it, Molly put one hand behind Sherlock's head then placed a kiss on his lips. Sherlock, with a little difficulty, returned the romantic gesture and gave the hand still holding his own a gentle squeeze.

They remained in this still kiss for a few minutes until it was becoming clear that Sherlock need to sleep. Molly reluctantly pulled away and ran her hand through is curls, gazing deeply into his already halfway closed eyes.

"I love you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes," she said before placing a kiss on his cheek.

"You never...use my full name," he breathed out in reply, finally letting the fatigue take him.

"It makes the declaration sound more profound," she teased, "Now, get some rest so we can go home in the morning."

"Stay?" he asked

"Of course I will," she replied. Molly then situated herself to lay beside him as close as she possibly could without tangling up the IV lines. She rested her head on his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart and the gentle hum of his breathing; "I love you." she said.

"You already...said that." he replied, lazily wrapping an arm around her.

"I know."

"I love you too...Molly Elizabeth Hooper."

"I know."

_**Apologizes for the wait! Happy December and, to those who celebrated, hope your Thanksgiving was well. This chapter didn't turn out quite how I wanted it, but in this end it matters what you think :D. I have studied/worked in the medical field but I am in no way a medical professional; all medical references come from research. I do hope you enjoyed this update and please let me know what you think. The opinions do matter and hearing from you guys brightens my day.**_

_**Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	7. 6:Theres a Chance it will All be Alright

_**Chapter 6: There's a Chance it will All be Alright**_

"Molly!"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"The paper, can you fetch it for me?"  
"Sherlock, isn't-Sherlock, I gave it to you just a moment ago."

"Yes, and I've dropped it under the coffee table."

"Sherlock-"

"Thank you, Molly and...You do know that I love you, yes?"

"Yeah, I know."

It had been 2 weeks, 2 full weeks, since Sherlock's stint in the hospital. He had been sent home in the morning after his admission, just as the doctors had said, with a prescription for some flu medication and the stern warning to remain at home, resting, until he received full clearance from his GP to begin work again. Since his GP was John, Sherlock knew there was no fooling him. He would have to comply and stay at home, bed ridden as he was sure Molly would make him be. So with a pout that would rival a toddlers, Sherlock went home with Molly and agreed to his recovery process.

At first, it wasn't so bad. Sherlock gave into the idea of remaining home to rest without a fuss. In fact, as soon as they arrived home from the hospital, Sherlock drew himself a bath, dressed himself in his pajamas and went straight to bed without any instruction. Molly followed the orders the doctor had given her as well; she gave him his medicine at the right times, made sure he drank enough water, and basically kept him comfortable. There were a few times, Molly was sure of it, Sherlock even said thank you toward her kind acts. It took her by surprise to say the least.

The state of his health was beginning to slowly incline. The coughing had dwindled down to a minimal-almost nonexistent really-and fortunately the fever had left. He could sleep through the night with much more ease. Molly even took note of how gentle his breathing had she had to go to work, Mrs. Hudson or Mary would check in on Sherlock and, surprisingly, he didn't complain. He just kept his body and mind at rest, letting this illness just ride out it's course.

However, just after the first week, it became clear to Molly that Sherlock was very much done with being home ridden. He became almost like a pouting child, moaning and complaining about everything and practically driving her mad with what he called 'the tiniest of requests':

"Molly, can you bring me my laptop? I fear if I get out of bed, I'll break."

"Molly, my phone please. It's only just a few stretches out of my reach."

"Molly, I feel quite cold. Would you light a fire or get me a blanket?"

Then, there was the 'subtle' hints that Sherlock was trying to guilt her over the fact he was not allowed outside:

"What time is it, Molly? I can barely tell from my shut-in bedroom."

"Lestrade called. Sadly, another case was unsolved due to my absence."

"It's been awhile since I've seen Harper. Do you think she misses me?"

The real kick, of course, had to be the texts from him while she was at the morgue: 

_Will you be home soon? My caretakers have left me and I'm bored-SH_

_John has forbade me from taking clients. How am I to function?-SH_

_Molly, please talk to John and end this torture. I'm fine.-SH_

Fine.

Molly had begun to hate that word. What did it even mean, truly? Was it better than okay or a synonym for neutral? That word was Sherlock's answer to everything when it came to his recovery. She'd ask if he was feeling any better than the previous day; he'd say he was fine. She'd check to see if the fever had returned; he'd brush her off and say he was fine. Sometimes, Molly felt like she was back at square one, being nowhere near finding out what was wrong with Sherlock.

Still, she knew he was getting better. She could see it, everyone could. That's what she needed to focus on, not the complaining or the silly requests or the guilt trip he was attempting to put her through. Sherlock Holmes was getting better and he was going to stay that way. Molly would ensure it.

"Here," she said, dropping the paper in his lap, "be more careful with it."

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows and gave her a confused glance. He was laying on the couch, dressed in his pajamas, with one of the blankets from the bedroom draped over his body; "Are-are you mad at me?" he asked, genuinely taken back by Molly's cold tone.

"No, no, Sherlock, I'm not," she replied, heading back into the kitchen to finish plating dinner, "I'm-I'm just busy right now."

"You made soup for dinner and it's done," he stated, "How busy can you be?"

"Too busy to pick up your bloody paper from right beside you," she grumbled under her breath as she continued to stir the tomato soup that was heating up on the stove. It wasn't that she was angry with him, far from it really. She just wasn't in the mood for his little requests right now.

"Molly," Sherlock called after no more than a few moments of silence.

'_He better not have dropped his bloody paper again.' _she thought as she poured the soup into two bowls; "Yes, Sherlock?" Molly replied through gritted teeth. Then, much to Molly's surprise, Sherlock padded his way into the kitchen and slowly came up behind her. "What are you doing up?" she asked, "You should be resting."

"I've been resting for weeks," he said, setting his hands comfortably on her shoulders, "Well, when I say resting, I mean driving you completely up the wall."

Molly nervously chewed on her bottom lip; "Well, your not wrong." she muttered.

Sherlock laughed a bit as he gently started to massage circles into her tense shoulders: "You can tell me no," he went on, "I know that I'm just being rubbish."

"You're not being rubbish," she replied, taking in how nice his touch felt, "Just...a little pushy."

"Story of our relationship," he deeply chuckled before placing a chaste kiss on her blushing cheek.

Molly tried to stay stern but she couldn't help but giggle as Sherlock began to place a row of kisses down the side of her neck; "Wha-what are you doing?" she managed to say as a comforting chill ran up her spine, but he didn't reply. He was too focused on gently pulling back her pink cardigan so that the straps of her black tank top would be visible.

He then continued his trail of kisses all the way across her shoulder then made his way back to her neck, increasing the tenderness of each kiss by just a small bit. Molly couldn't help but freeze where she stood; his lips were surprisingly soft against her skin. It had been far too long since she had this feeling inside of her; a feeling that only Sherlock could awaken.

"Sherlock," she sighed, holding on to the edge of remaining strong, "if you don't-"

"Don't what?" he whispered into her ear, "Go back to laying on the sofa like an invalid? No, no, I assure you Dr. Hooper. My body, although in a recovery state, is in need for much more."

"I-I don't think..."

"Think what? That I'm up for it?"

As he reached the crook of her neck, Sherlock nipped at the skin with his teeth causing Molly to let out a tiny squeal. She turned to face him, but was taken aback when his lips caught hers of guard.

Their fingers became tightly intertwined as their deep lip-lock grew into a passionate kiss. Her eyes fluttered closed as Sherlock brought his tongue to wrap with hers. Ignoring the food for now, Molly dropped the serving spoon and cupped Sherlock's face in her hands. She then tangled her fingers in his messy mop of curls while they began to blindly move toward the bedroom. Sherlock smiled against her lips then gently pulled away so to gaze deeply into her eyes.

"Molly Hooper, my dearest Molly Hooper," He whispered as he nipped at her earlobe, "you've been too good to me over the years." Sherlock then nuzzled his forehead against hers until his nose gently touched her own. "How long has it been since we've had sex, hmm? Since before I was taken ill, I believe." he teased, now fulling encasing his arms around her middle. "What is to be done about that? Surely, you and I can come up with a solution."

Molly let out a small squeal just as Sherlock's lips came crashing against hers once more. As their kiss intensified, Molly could feel Sherlock's heart beating rapidly, almost as if it were about to burst from his chest. As their kiss grew, Sherlock began to moan into hr mouth almost as if he were in a slight bit of pain. Normally, in the heat of a moment like this, she wouldn't take any mind to it but something wasn't right. There was a nagging feeling seeping into her thoughts, telling her to stop increasing their passion.

"We-we should stop," she breathed heavily, resting her hands on his chest, "You're not-You're not well."

"I'm well enough," he replied, quickly swooping her up into his arms as he dove into placing deep kisses on the side of Molly's neck. Allowing her eyes to flutter closed again, Molly gave into Sherlock's advances.

She allowed herself to be carried and then laid down on the couch. As Sherlock loomed over her, their eyes locked for just a split moment. It was just enough for Molly to see through his romantic facade. He dipped his head low for another kiss, but Molly brought her fingers up just in time to stop his oncoming lips.

"What's wrong?" she asked, allowing her fast beating heart to return to it's normal pace.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, breathing heavily, "Why-why would you think something was wrong?"

"Because I can see it in your eyes." she said, "Talk to me."

"Molly, please," he begged, hanging his head low, "just let me-let me have you for this one moment."

"Sherlock..."

"Oh, for the love of-Alright! You win!"

Suddenly, Sherlock's passionate and loving gaze melted into one of hurt and anger. He quickly got off of her and stormed over to the window to gaze at the people down below; "Two weeks," he said through his teeth, "I've been trapped in here for two weeks, having everyone treating me as if I'm incapable of taking care of myself. It's demeaning, Molly, absolutely embarrassing."

"That's nothing to be embarrassed about," she nervously replied, sitting up and adjusting her cardigan sleeves, "You're sick."

Sherlock let out an aggravated moan and ran his hands up and down his face: "For God's sake, will everyone just shut up and stop saying that!" he yelled, causing Molly to jump, "How many times must I say it? I. Am. Fine. Need I spell it for you all?! God, it's infuriating!"

"Sherlock, there's no need for you to get upset."

"Isn't there!? I'm being held prisoner in my own home; how is that not grounds for being upset, Molly!? Please, enlighten me!" Sherlock then spun around and waved his arms about the room as he continued his rant: "My mind runs on a constant flow of information; these past few days it's fallen into a state of stagnation. I can not function if I do not have work, Molly! You, John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson; all of you have stripped me from what I need to live! You all claim_ 'Oh, Sherlock's too ill to work.' _or _'We don't want to strain him.' _Honestly, it's as if none of you truly believe that I am better."

"It's because we care about you," Molly said in a meek voice; it wasn't that she felt intimated by him, just now. Shouting just made her uncomfortable.

"If you care for me, then let me out!" he snapped, "Let me take on cases! Let me be alone for a few hours in the flat, without any petty supervision! Let me see my goddaughter before she becomes to old to remember who I am! I need to enter the world of the living! I can not stand by and have everything pass me! Just let me...J-just let m-m-me...Damn it."

Sherlock then began to stumble around, waving his arms about to grab hold to anything. The world was spinning and nothing would remain in focus. Small black dots peppered his vision and a headache pounded against his skull; "Mmph, my-my head," he moaned, grabbing the sides of his head and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Sherlock, Sherlock stay with me," Molly called out but to him her voice was muffled and was in pain, agonizing pain. All color had left his face and a small coughing fit was beginning to erupt in his chest.

Jumping into the role of doctor, Molly immediately rushed to his side and guided him toward the couch. He didn't fight it, much to her surprise. He seemed almost like a rag doll as she guided him to sit on the couch, completely limp and willing to be cared for.

Once he was settled in an upright position, Molly sat beside him and placed a comforting hand on his back. As another wave of pain came over him, Sherlock took Molly's free hand into both of his and squeezed; "For God's sake, my head," he cursed, "I can't do this anymore."

"Hey, it's okay, you're okay." she whispered in a comforting tone, "I've got you. I've got you. I'm here."

"Don't...Don't ever leave."

"You know that I won't."

Sherlock gave out a few deep and steady breaths, completely focusing all his attention on the floor. Feeling the utmost need to just be as close to him as possible, Molly wrapped her arms around Sherlock's thin body in a warm embrace: "What do you need?" she cooed, placing a kiss on the top of his head.

"You seem to always ask me that question," Sherlock replied with a breathy chuckle, "What do I need? What do I need?" He then wrapped his arms around her as well and brought her to lean back against the cushions with him; "My answer is the same as it was 3 years ago," he sighed into her hairline, "I need you."

Sherlock then closed his eyes and placed a chaste kiss on Molly's forehead causing her cheeks to turn a bright shade of pink. After a few more long minutes of listening to Sherlock's deep and heavy breathing, it seemed to Molly that his headache had died down. They sat on the couch, just holding onto one another, not daring to break the peaceful silence that now pervaded the room.

"Molly," he whispered, "I...I apologize."

"There's no need to." she replied, "To be honest, I was expecting a rant."

"...Oh?"

"You're not the kind of person to take to being cared for lightly, Sherlock."

"This...this is very true."

"Just get some rest right now, okay. I'm not leaving your side."  
The peaceful silence fell once again. Everything seemed calm and right in this moment. No illness' busied their minds, no work related issues brought them trouble; everything seemed to be in it's place.

And yet, something, just one little something, tugged at the back of Molly's mind. Very carefully, she adjusted herself so that she could give her lover a real look over. He was pale, paler than normal, and he was clearly having some trouble catching his breath. She furrowed her brow in confusion as she curled up beside him; this wasn't right. Sherlock was supposed to be getting better not falling back.

"Speak what's on your mind, Molly," he said, "I know that face."

"What face?" Molly asked, "You're not even looking at me. Actually, I thought you'd fallen asleep."

Very slowly, Sherlock opened his eyes and gave her that smirk that had made her heart melt so many times. He knew exactly what she was thinking as if her thoughts were written on her face.

"Yes," he said as plain as day.

"Yes to what?" she asked.

"All of it," he replied, "Yes, I'm still ill. Yes, I have more than just the flu. Yes, the medication was working but now I'm...I'm..." Sherlock stopped himself and closed his eyes once again, focusing on his breathing. He took a moment then continued: "I'm...dying, Molly."  
Molly blinked a few times and shook her head._ 'Dying; that's a tad of an overreaction.' _she thought, _'A dizzy spell and a coughing fit is hardly evidence of that.' _But as she looked, really looked, into Sherlock's eyes, Molly could see that this was not one of his mere over-the-top statements. There was truth in his gaze, truth and the hope that she would understand him.

"Sher-Sherlock, what," she tried to formulate something to say, but nothing seemed to make sense in her mind.

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh, one that sounded so full of despair, and ran a hand through his greasy curls; "Molly, I need you to listen to me," he sighed, "M-my body is...is fighting something, something that I'm not even one hundred percent sure what it is. John looked over my hospital report and my numbers were-Well, to save you all the jargon, something wasn't adding up. He thinks it's something to do with my heart, but he won't know for sure until he runs a blood test. That bout of pneumonia-because that's what it was, not the flu-it was just a symptom; a side effect of whats truly ailing me. The medication was helping that, but...but it wasn't making me wholly better. Molly, I hate admitting this to you, but it's the truth. I promised you that I would no longer shut you out when it comes to my health so-so this is my confession: I think I'm dying, Molly."

There was nothing, no feeling of anger or concern, that ran through her buzzing mind. Molly could only just stare at him and attempt to wrap her thoughts around what he had just said. The logical, medically trained, part of her brain was telling her to believe him, but her heart wouldn't allow it. How? How could he have reached this point? Of course, Sherlock's bill of health was never the cleanest but even that didn't help make this news any easier to swallow.

No, she couldn't believe it. This was a trick, a cruel trick to make her feel guilty about making him stay home. Just like those kisses, this so-called confession was just a cruel joke Sherlock was playing to make her cave and say he can be free from his self-proclaimed prison.

"N-no, no your not dying," Molly replied with a breathy, disbelieving chuckle, "This is just you being dramatic. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but John is right when he calls you a drama queen."

"Molly, please," Sherlock sighed, looking down at the floor again, "this is serious."

"I know exactly how serious this is so I don't appreciate you saying stupid things like your dying," Molly said, becoming stern, "Because you're not, alright. You are just upset that you haven't left the house in some time."

"Molly, I'm not lying to you"

"No, Sherlock, no. You're getting better, alright. You're going to be fine...just fine."

Molly then rose from the couch and started to back away from him. If it weren't for the look in his eyes right now and how sickly he appeared, Molly wouldn't be doubting Sherlock's words. Dying, no that's ridiculous, a ridiculous, senseless, unreal assumption. Sherlock was not dying, he couldn't be. He just needed to get out of the flat, get his thoughts back in the right place.

"You need a case," Molly finally said, half assuring yourself that that would be a sensible solution to all of this, "is that what you want to hear?"

"Molly, no, I..."

"Okay, okay, I get it. You're bored and you need to do something. Fine then, go-go ahead and call Greg; I'm sure he's got a whole queue of cases waiting for you."

Sherlock shook his head in dismay then looked up, locking his eyes with Molly's. He wanted to explain it all to her; take her in his arms and just have her understand what he was telling her. But even Sherlock Holmes couldn't make Molly Hooper do anything or believe anything she didn't want to. With a defeated sigh, he slowly rose from the couch. It took him a moment to find his center of balance, but once he did Sherlock took Molly's hand into his and placed a kiss on her knuckles.

"I'll be in the bedroom," he said as he walked past her, not giving her a moment to reply, "I won't be eating dinner."

"Sherlock, wait," Molly tried but he had already entered the bedroom and closed the door.

As if his feet were being guided by some phantom force, Sherlock headed straight for the bed then fell face down atop it. His entire body ached and the world was beginning to fade into that dizzying fog again. Subconsciously, Sherlock gripped at his chest as he rolled onto his was a peaceful darkness wanting to over take him and was practicality inviting it too. If it dulled the pain running all over his body, then it was worth knocking out for a few moments.

It was the annoying buzzing of his phone that broke Sherlock out of his small trance. Grabbing the device from the bedside table, he unlocked the screen and read over the message:

_Got the blood test back-JW_

_And?-SH_

_We need to talk-JW_

_**Happy Christmas to those who celebrate it and thanks for reading another chapter. Since I have the next one pretty much planed out, I had some issues writing this one. It's sort of just a time filler but I wanted to get in the fact that Sherlock's figured out he's more ill then he or Molly expected. Hope it made sense. **_

_**As always, your feedback is greatly appreciated. Hope you all have a wonderful end of the year and the happiest of holidays.**_

_**Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	8. Chapter 7: So Here We Go

_**Chapter 7: So Here We Go**_

"Your serious?"

"Very serious. I may be an ass, but I wouldn't lie about this."

"You've had tests done an-and everything?"

"The evidence all leads to one inevitable outcome."

"So...I mean, I wish I didn't have to ask it, but-"  
"How long have I got?"  
"Jesus, no, I wasn't-don't...don't say shit like that."

Sherlock stood in front of Lestrade's desk in the Detective Inspector's office at Scotland Yard. He was dressed in his normal attire of a black suit with a black button up under his signature coat and scarf, but he truly didn't look like himself. He was pale, paler than usual, and it was clear that standing up right wasn't the best idea for him. John was right beside him, literally and figuratively. He had been the one, after all, who had delivered the news to Sherlock: the news that would no doubt bare a heavy weight on his mind for a long time to come:

Sherlock Holmes was ill, far more ill than he had ever expected to find out.

He was, in fact, fatally ill.

John had noticed the abnormalities in Sherlock's blood count after the nurse at the hospital gave him the paperwork. That was part of the reason she, as well as the doctors, wished to speak to him about Sherlock's previous health conditions after he was taken to hospital two and a half weeks ago. They had noted during their tests the lack of red blood cells which lead them to believe was the cause of Sherlock's weakening immune system. John took this information to heart, not just as Sherlock's GP but more so as his best friend. He knew what all of this information meant...yet he didn't want to admit it.

A day or so after Sherlock had been sent home, John told his friend of the doctor's findings; he had stopped by with Mary and Harper while Molly was at work. At first, not really to John's surprise, Sherlock didn't believe him.

"Those clot-head doctors have no idea what's wrong with me," he had retorted, "that's what they are really telling you, John."

"Then let me run the same tests," he offered, "If the results come back differently, then we can agree that those doctors are wrong and report them to your brother or whatever. If not,well, then you have to trust me on this and let me do my job."

"What are you implying, that if these tests come back conclusive,that I'm dying or something?"

"Sherlock...please, trust me."  
With a few more minutes of convincing-and possibly using his goddaughter as a bargain chip of sorts-Sherlock caved and allowed John to run the tests, but under one single condition:

"Molly can not know a thing about this," he sternly warned, "not a word."

"She'll be furious when she finds out you've kept this from her," John pointed out, but Sherlock was not budging.

"Either Molly is kept in the dark or I don't consent to the tests." he challenged, "Your choice, Doctor Watson."

Despite the deal feeling completely unfair to Molly, who wasn't even there to voice an opinion, John accepted Sherlock's terms. He ran the diagnostics at the clinic, collecting the samples that he needed from Sherlock whenever Mary would stop by to care for him (she was a trained nurse after all...or so she claimed), and then texting the progress to the consulting detective when the results would come in. Sadly, as expected, the results were the same as those in the hospital: there was a significant decrease in Sherlock's red blood cell count. Upon further investigation, John had the conclusion to the problem that was Sherlock's health.

"Aplastic Anemia," he announced upon his next visit with Mary to 221b, exactly two weeks after Sherlock had been home from hospital, "Your body isn't producing enough red blood cells to keep you functioning. This effected your immune system which made you more vulnerable to catching and fighting something off; the pneumonia you have medication for most likely started out as the flu but then worsened because of this."

"And my heart," Sherlock calmly urged him to continue, keeping a blissfully oblivious Harper in place in his lap, "is the arrhythmia part of all that as well?"

"Yes, as are your black-outs," John went on, "You need to go to hospital. This is very serious and potentially fa-Look, don't make me force you to take care of yourself."  
"You're my doctor, you do something about it," Sherlock protested, "I'm not going back there."

"Sherlock, listen for once in your life," Mary interjected, "this is out of John's hands."  
"Clearly, this is out of everyone's hands so why not just let this run it's course, hmm?" he retorted, "Let my body do as it pleases."

"Sherlock," John sighed, rubbing his forehead in frustration, "do you know what your saying?"

"I know exactly what I'm saying, John: I accept that I'm dying."

An uncomfortable and deafening silence filled the tension soaked flat just then, giving John and Mary time to wrap their heads around what Sherlock had said. With a heavy sigh and keeping his gaze fixed on his goddaughter, Sherlock continued:

"Would it be a surprise for you to hear that I came to that conclusion of long before your final tests came in, John?" he said, taking Harper's little hands into his, "I may not be a medical man, but I know enough to piece together the results you've been texting me. I tried explain it to Molly this afternoon, before she left for her walk and you lot came over, but she didn't believe me. I didn't have a name for it, but this illness-Aplastic Anemia, yes? That's what your calling it-I knew that it was killing me. Seems foolish to say it now, but...I could feel it."

He then turned his gaze up toward the Watsons; his normally piercing eyes were now filled with a look that could only be described as defeated. John had seen that look before, at Appledore when Magnussen revealed his 'mind palace' to them. A sharp pain filled John's gut as he just shook his head in dismay; He wasn't going to loose Sherlock, he couldn't.

"I'm-I'm not going to bury you again," the former army doctor said with determination, "Don't make me, Sherlock. Promise me that you'll pull through this."

"John, my friend," Sherlock replied, with a melancholy smirk, "You're a doctor and therefore know for a fact that I can't make you that promise."

He made John and Mary promise to not tell Molly upon her return to the flat; "Tell her you came over just as a visit, nothing prompted you." he said, "Please allow me the luxury to tell her myself."

That was almost a week ago and Sherlock hadn't told Molly a word about his illness. Was it his pride again keeping him from speaking the truth or something else? John certainly didn't know and, truth be told, neither did Sherlock. In his heart, that cold and fighting muscle so many people believed he didn't have, Sherlock knew that this was a secret he could not keep from her forever. Molly would find out and when she did, she'd be angry with him. He hated making her angry; she meant so much to him.

Despite a few stern warnings from John, Sherlock insisted that life continue on as if nothing at all had changed. He wished to continue taking clients and taking on cases for Scotland Yard; "I'm not an invalid, John, at least not yet." he had protested, "Please, allow me to do my job for as long as time will allow."

It was a case that had brought the consulting detective and his ever faithful blogger to Scotland Yard and then respectively to the detective inspector's office; the visit was not just to break the news of Sherlock's condition to Lestrade, but to DI now had his head in his heads and was breathing rather heavily, soaking in the news that he had just received:

"So," he attempted to begin again, running a hand through his short silver hair, "Sherlock, you're...ill."

"Thought that would have been obvious when I said: 'Lestrade, I can not preform some of my duties to par due to the fact I am fatally ill.'" Sherlock stated rather plainly.

"Don't...don't say that," John muttered under his breath, but it was loud enough for Sherlock to hear him.

"Don't say what, that this illness is fatal? It is," he said, "I'm not going to hide that information nor ignore it."

"Okay, wait-wait a moment," the flustered DI managed to put in before an argument erupted, "I mean, you've got this...and you're going to-Jesus Christ, this is a lot."

"Oh, spare me the dramatic response, Lestrade," Sherlock sighed, rubbing his forehead, "I'm too exhausted to deal with emotions right now." John nudged his friend in the shoulder, wordlessly saying_ 'Don't be so harsh. This is hard for him.'_, but Sherlock just brushed it off; "If it's any consolation," he continued, leaning on the desk a bit, "I wasn't going to tell you any of this; John made me."

"What?!" Lestrade suddenly exclaimed, giving the pair a wide-eyed look, "You were just going to keep me in the dark about all this!?"  
"No, Greg, of course not," John said, stepping in, "We just didn't know how to tell you."

"No, that's not it at all," Sherlock added, "I simply didn't want to parade this information around as if it were the world's business."

"How long have you been ill?" Lestrade asked, "Is this why you've been so off lately?"

"I don't know what you mean by 'off' and, frankly, my patience is too thin to care," Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes, "I've been ill for a few weeks now; John gave me the official diagnosis last week. Now about this case-"

"It's hard to tell how long this has been affecting his body," John continued, cutting off the detective's attempt at changing the subject, "If he'd go to hospital, like I suggested, and receive proper treatment-"

"In hospital, they will treat me like a goddamn invalid." Sherlock shot out, "I need to work, not lie in a bed for hours on end. So, that is why I am here; I need to work. Lestrade, when I called you said you had a case for me?"

"Will he need to be hospitalized at some point?" Lestrade asked John, sounding very much like a worried father which caused Sherlock to give him a look of complete annoyance.

"He'll need blood transfusions and, if nothing improves, a bone marrow transplant," John replied, "This isn't something he'll get over after a few months or so, though; this could very much be a life-long illness."

"Is he still able to work?" the DI asked.

"Yes," Sherlock spat out, "I'm fine."

"Sherlock seems to think he can," John explained, "but that's why I'm here. We can't let him push himself too much."

"How much is too much? I can cut him off." Lestrade pointed out.

"Don't cut me off, I am fine," Sherlock repeated, clenching his fists in annoyance.

"I'll let you know." John answered, "Let's just handle this case as if it were any other and go from there. You said there's little leg work?"

"Little leg work means I will be fine," Sherlock tried again, "Now can we please just get-"

"It's mainly examining the body," Lestrade explained, "I need a fresh pair of eyes and Sherlock's the best. That is, of course, if you think he's really up to it."

"I am still right here," Sherlock snapped, standing upright, "but please do carry on talking as if I'm-"

"I think he's up for it," John replied, ignoring the clearly agitated detective, "I'm assuming we'll be going to the morgue then?"

"Is that a problem?" Lestrade asked, "Can he not be around chemicals or something?"

"I'm just concerned about Molly," John explained, "Sherlock hasn't told her about all this yet."

"Well, why would he?"

"Oh, do-do you not know about them?"  
"What do you mean 'them'? Oh-Oh, God, Sherlock are you and Molly-"

"Oh, will the two of you just shut the hell up!" Sherlock suddenly shouted, slamming his hand on the desk, "Stop ignoring my existence, stop talking about my illness and, for God's sake, stop acting as if I'm going to drop dead at any moment! I don't want to talk about it, I want to keep living my life as if nothing has changed. Because I am fine damn it! I am perfectly... I am perfect-shit."

Suddenly, Sherlock placed a hand on his forehead and started to sway in place. He tried to walk, waving a hand out as if to hold onto something, but he couldn't keep himself upright. With a groan, Sherlock's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he started to loose all support in his legs. Lestrade, frozen in shock, yelled out the detective's name, but Sherlock continued to topple forward. Fortunately, John was able to catch him before he hit the floor.

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you with me?" he asked, pulling the weary detective back up into a standing position. Sherlock just groaned in response, allowing his head to hang low against John's shoulder.

"John, it's...it's my head," Sherlock groaned, "it's pounding."

"Just try to stay awake," John coaxed, guiding him to the chair Lestrade had just pulled out for him, "focus on breathing." As he was being sat down in the chair, Sherlock started to lamely fight off the help he was getting; "Whoa, whoa, easy, easy," John coaxed, firmly setting his hands on Sherlock's shoulder's, "I've got you."

"Let me go," Sherlock breathed out, clearly trying (but failing) to stand up, "I'm...I'm just..."

"I swear to God if you say your fine, I'll let you fall," John quickly said with a smirk, "Now, come on. Stay with me, alright?"

Unwillingly, Sherlock sat back down with a thud and leaned back as far as he could, holding onto the sleeve of John's jacket as if it were a life-line. Lestrade could only just watch the scene unfold, completely unaware of what to do. He just stared at the frail man in the chair before him and tried to see him as the confident, strong Sherlock that he had grown surprisingly fond of.

"Wha-what just happened?" he sheepishly asked.

"I got dizzy," Sherlock admitted, sounding as if he were about to fall asleep, "It's...It's nothing."

"It's not nothing," John corrected, checking Sherlock's pulse, "these fainting spells are far from nothing."

"Fainting spells," Lestrade said, sounding very stern all of a sudden, "Are these a common thing now? John, listen, if Sherlock is passing out from time to time, then I can't let him out in the field with us. If he's not fit for duty..."  
"Those rules only apply to your employees," Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes again, "I...I don't work for you."

"Not officially, but when your here, you are to follow my rules," Lestrade replied, "God only knows that you don't abide by them, but-"

"But, what?" Sherlock sneered, rubbing his temple in annoyance, "Your going to complain about my methods now, after all this time? Do I or do I not get the job done?"

"Sherlock, calm down." John warned, "Your pulse is a little too fast."

"Oh, for God's sake, just stop this." Sherlock snapped, "Stop treating me like a child. I'm dying so let me die as a man, for pity sake."

Those last words caught both Lestrade and John off guard. He had said them as if it were the easiest thing in the world to admit; it was almost as if Sherlock had simply accepted his fate and wasn't going to do anything about it. They looked to each other, and then back at him, taking in the sight of the frail Sherlock Holmes sitting before them.

The detective looked positively exhausted; sweat was dripping from his forehead and he was extremely pale. His breathing was heavy and sounding as if it were taking quite a bit of concentration to keep it even. Despite this being the first day he was wearing something other than his pajamas, Sherlock looked completely worn out and spent. He had only been out of the flat for a few hours or so and already it was as if he were running on fumes just to stay awake and conscious.

After a moment, Sherlock finally let go of John's sleeve and opened his eyes. He looked to Lestrade and then to John before taking another deep breath. With just a hint of sadness in his tone, Sherlock spoke in a voice that was unfamiliarity to the DI and the doctor; a voice that could be described as the one of someone who has accepted the inevitable.

"I don't want to be ill and I certainly don't wish to die, but I can not deny what is happening to me," he said, "That being said, I understand completely what the two of are trying to do, but I would ask that you stop."

"Stop what," Lestrade asked, folding his arms across his chest, "being concerned about your health?"

"Treating me like a bomb that is just about to go off," Sherlock quickly replied, "I want to carry on my work as I always have and be treated as I have always been treated. I'm still that selfish ass Sherlock Holmes, being ill doesn't change that."

"Sherlock, I'm trying to tell you that you simply can't carry on like you always have," John sighed, "Your body won't be able to keep up with you anymore."

"This isn't a discussion, John," Sherlock said, "I'm telling you to let me live my life for as long as I can." Then, with a groan and using up his little strength, Sherlock rose up from the chair and faced Lestrade; "You said over the phone that you had a case for me," he urged the DI to speak, "Do elaborate."

"Sherlock, I..." Lestrade started to protest, but after quickly seeing the look of what one may call pleading in the detective's eyes, he changed his mind; "A body of a man in his late 40s washed up on the shores of the Thames," he explained, heading back over to his desk, "He was later identified as a William Carson."

"Greg," John said, giving the DI a look of warning. Lestrade just shook his head and handed Sherlock a gray folder from the large stack of papers on the desk.

"Who was he? Anyone of significance?" Sherlock asked, putting himself into a work attitude.

"Not really," Lestrade replied, "but he was supposed to be working on one of the ships leaving Southampton next week. In fact, he even clocked in today."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat; "Bit difficult to do when your dead," he muttered, stifling a cough, "Why call me?"

"Because someone is at the docks pretending to be William Carson and I want to know why." Lestrade replied.

"Hmm." the consulting detective hummed, flipping through the file, "Cause of death?"

"Not sure yet. I was going down to the morgue today to ask Molly."

"Well then, we should get a cab and see her. By the way, yes."

"Yes to what?"

"Your earlier question; we are together, her and I. Now, let's go."

Sherlock then closed the folder, stuffed it into his coat, then headed for the door. Just before stepping out, he turned on his heel and gave Lestrade a somber look; "Thank you." he said in almost a whisper. Lestrade just nodded in reply then Sherlock was off.

Just as the DI was putting on his coat, the befuddled John Watson set a firm hand on his shoulder; "Greg, we can't let him do this," he said, "We...I can't let him die."

"John, I agree with you, but what can we do?" Lestrade replied, "He'll take on a case, wither we like it or not. At least, we can keep an eye on him through this...while we can. Jesus, is he-is he really going to die, John?"

The former army doctor gave off a heavy sigh and shook his head; "I can't let that happen," he replied, "I won't let it."

_**Happy New Year, readers! Hope you all had a wonderful holiday. There was more I wanted to add to this chapter, but it started to sound like rambling so I moved it to the beginning of the next one. I hope to update soon seeing that I have a big chuck of the next installment ready to go. **_

_**As always, thank you for coming back for more and please let me know what you think. (To those who have reviewed, I hope you received my messages.) I tried to keep the medical aspect of all this as accurate as possible, but I am by no means a medical professional. Let me know what you all think and I'll see you next time.**_

_**Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	9. Chapter 8: Together Not Alone

_**Chapter 8: Together Not Alone**_

The pounding of the rain outside could be heard through out the lab at St. Barts, adding to the already macabre atmosphere of the place. The clock on the wall read half past twelve, but it felt much later into the evening. Molly sat at a lab station, finishing up her lunch while working on the elbow deep amount of paperwork in front of her. She was filling out each form with as much accuracy as possible, despite her thoughts being far from in the moment. She hadn't slept well the past few nights; her mind was too busy on other things that she couldn't find it herself to relax. It was Sherlock that was distracting her thoughts, but not in the jovial, love struck way he usually vexed her mind.

For the past week, it seemed that their relationship had hit a sort of plateau. Sherlock barely spoke to her, reverting it seemed back to the way he treated her before he had met John; less human and more like a cold, constantly working machine. By the time she would return home from work, there would either be a note from Sherlock taped to the door saying he was with John or she would find Sherlock was fast asleep on the couch, almost completely hidden by a blanket. Their conversations never passed the points of "_Good Morning", "Going to work now" or "Se__e you later." _Molly knew him well enough not to ask him about why he was avoiding her, but that didn't make any of it easier to deal with. He was still Sherlock, of course, but something was off; something just wasn't right and it wasn't just this bout of pneumonia he was finally getting over.

At night, though, things were different. Sherlock always came to bed after her, that wasn't new, and normally he would slip under the covers then drift off. These past few nights, however, he would wrap his arms around Molly, completely encasing her in his warmth, and then place a soft kiss her cheek;

"Thank you, Molly," he would whisper, "for staying."

She would lie awake thinking about what that meant; Did he mean staying as in staying in a relationship with him or staying in his life completely? As he slept, Molly couldn't help but notice how exhausted Sherlock looked. He seemed older, more worn down, like a man who had been fighting for far too long. Even when his body was at complete rest, Sherlock seemed to still be in motion; his mind and body were still working, like a well oiled machine.

It was in these moments, and well into the day, Molly could hear Sherlock's voice in her head, echoing the words he had said to her last week:

"_...this is my confession: I think I'm dying, Molly."_

Dying.

Of course that would make him tired, but no. That wasn't what was wrong; Molly knew that in her heart. Still, it was the way he said those words that made the tiniest bit of doubt grow in her mind. He sounded so lost, yet so sure, as if it literally pained him to say those things. If it was a lie, then surely he wouldn't have sounded like that.

'_Why would he say something like that in the first place?' _She wondered, as she carelessly signed her name to another form,_'Yes, he can over exaggerate the simplest of things, but even he knows death isn't something to take lightly. He better than anyone knows that.'_

A light ping sounded from her phone, breaking Molly from her thoughts for a brief moment. She pulled the device out from her lab coat pocket and looked at the screen:

_Be over in a bit to follow up the William Carson case-GL_

Happy to break away from the mundane process of paperwork, Molly sat up straight and quickly typed a reply as she gathered her things:

_OK. I'll have it ready for you-MH_

_Thanks. Sherlock's with me-GL_

_OK.-MH_

_Don't worry. John and I are keeping an eye on him.-GL_

She stopped in her tracks as she read the last message over again. _'What does that mean?'_ Molly asked herself.

"Molly,"

At the sound of her name, Molly looked up, surprised to see Mary Watson, holding a baby carrier with a smiling Harper inside, coming through the doors.

"Mike said that you'd be here and, well, we were in the neighborhood," she said with a charming smile as she approached, "Hope we aren't interrupting anything important."

"Mary, hi! How, um, unexpected," Molly said, returning the smile, "You're not interrupting anything."

"Mmlll!" Harper hummed as she held her arms out to Molly.

"Well, hello to you too," Molly cooed, taking one of Harper's hands into her own, "Are you trying to talk?"

"Ah, yes," Mary proudly said, kissing her daughter's cheek, "Ms. Harper Sherri Watson has begun to explore the world of babbling. No full words yet, of course, but she's figuring it out."

"I'll never wrap my head around the fact that the two of you actually found a way to include the name of Sherlock into your daughter's name," Molly said, tickling Harper's tummy. The little girl let out a giddy little laugh and reached out for Molly even further.

"Nor will I, Molly," Mary joked, "Well, since someone is very keen on being with her godmother right now, care for a bit of company?"

"I'd love some." Molly replied, taking Harper into her arms, "Besides, a friend to talk with is exactly what I need right now."

"Oh, do tell." Mary urged, setting the papers on another table top, "What's that clot head boyfriend of yours done now? Oh, wait, John said that you two don't say boyfriend/girlfriend-Really, why is that?"

"I don't know. Ask Sherlock," Molly sighed, "And anyway, that's not what's bothering me."

"But, I am right in assuming that it's Sherlock related, yes?" Mary asked to which Molly just replied with a guilty, half-mouth smile. "What's he done now," Mary went on, "do you need me to beat him for you?"

"No, but I appreciate the offer" Molly jokingly replied, but then her smile quickly faded, "Mary, do you-If you and John knew something about Sherlock that I didn't, you both would tell me, right?"

"What do you mean?" Mary asked, furrowing her brow, "Do you think Sherlock's hiding something from you?"

"Well, I don't know. That's the issue," Molly sighed, adjusting her hold on Harper, "He's been acting so odd lately."

"Odder than usual?"

"Much odder than usual. He's closed off, he barely talks to me when we're home and he's always, well for lack of a better word, sad."

Mary chewed on her bottom lip for a moment and looked to the ground; "Define sad."  
"Well, you know, he's just...sad." Molly went on, "I know something is on his mind, something big, but he won't talk to me about it. And if I can be honest, frankly...It's really frustrating. I mean, I know that's cold to say but that's how I feel."

"It's not cold at all," Mary said, taking a seat beside her, "Have you talked with him about this?"

"I wouldn't know how to bring it up," Molly confessed, "Ever since Sherlock told me that he's dying ..."

"He said what?" Mary quickly asked,eyes growing wide, "Sherlock told you he was dying?! He said those words to you?!"  
"I know! How ridiculous!" Molly replied, "I mean, I know he can be a drama queen about being ill, but that was just out of line."  
Mary gave her a confused look, but then the realization finally hit her: "Oh my god," she breathed out, "He hasn't told you."  
"Told me what?" Molly asked, giving her friend a confused look, "Mary, what's the matter?" but her friend could not find it in herself to reply. With the worry already inside of her now building at a fast rate, Molly placed Harper back into the carrier then turned toward Mary so that their eyes had to meet.

"What's going on?" she asked, "And please, be honest with me."

"Molly, I...I don't think it's my place to say," Mary sheepishly replied, "I want to, believe me, but..."

"But what?"

"But this really needs to be between you and Sherlock."

Before Molly could press the matter any further, the doors of the lab swung open. They both turned to see Sherlock come in, his coat flowing behind him as if it were a grand cape. His cheeks were flushed, as if he had been running for a long while, and it was clear that he was breathing rather heavily. John and Lestrade, who had both come in hot on Sherlock's heels, looked less exhausted and they were clearly keeping their worried gazes locked onto Sherlock's every move.

"Ask him," Mary harshly whispered to Molly.

"Wait, what?" Molly asked, but Mary had already gone over to greet her husband.

"Mary," John asked, catching the sight of his wife out of the corner of his eye, "What are you doing here and with the baby?"

"Dah! Dah!" Harper giggled as John approached them.

Mary quickly hugged her husband; "We were in the neighborhood," she replied, looking directly in his eyes "and I thought I'd see how Molly was doing."

"Hello, John," Molly meekly said with a wave.

"Hey, Molly, what's..." John was about to inquire but Mary quickly grabbed his arm and gave him a knowing look. John furrowed his brow then looked over at Molly, then back at Mary and then finally at Sherlock. It was then, the same realization that had hit Mary hit him too. Before he could say anything, though, Sherlock spoke up.

"Clearly Molly's fine," he said, "Why wouldn't she be?"

"Shr! Shr!" Harper giddily squealed at her godfather.

"Ah, I see that we're still working on the whole talking business," Sherlock said, swooping the giddy little girl out of the carrier and onto his hip, "Hello, Harper. Always a pleasure." He placed a small kiss on her cheek, then turned his attention toward Molly; "Hello to you as well," he said, stepping closer to her so that their toes were touching.

"Um, hi," Molly replied, suddenly feeling very warm. There was a tension now that pervaded the room; not an uncomfortable or negative one, but it was enough to make Molly wish she were anywhere but here.

"You look well," he said, adjusting his goddaughter on his hip, "How's work going for you?"

"Good, just...good." she replied, "How are you?"

"Fine, as usual," he said, "Nothing new."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Oh, well, okay then."

"Yes. Alright then."

It was like speaking with a stranger; Molly could not find a single thing in her mind to say to him just now. Mary, John and Lestrade were just looking at the two of them, waiting for something, really anything, to happen. Sherlock, though, was more focused on his goddaughter than the uncomfortable situation before him.

"Tell me, Molly," he said, addressing the pathologist but keeping his gaze on Harper, "William Carson. What do you have?"

"Um, the guy from the Thames. Not much," Molly sheepishly replied, switching her gaze from the Watsons and Lestrade then back to Sherlock, "I-I finished the autopsy this morning. Why?"

"We came to take a look at the body," Lestrade said, stepping in, "Sherlock's, um, on the case as it were."

"Oh," Molly said, looking at the DI and then back to Sherlock, "Are you sure your...I mean I don't know..."

"If I'm up to it, is that what you were going to ask?" Sherlock quickly said, "I assure you I am. Why on Earth wouldn't I be?"  
"Jesus, Sherlock, come on." John suddenly said with a sigh.

"John, come on," Mary tried to talk him down but it was too late.

"He needs to tell her," John went on before facing the pathologist again, "Molly, I apologize. I should have said something to you."  
"Wait, what?" Molly asked, her confusion beginning to meld with frustration.

"She doesn't know?" Lestrade asked, "Oh, God, Molly, I didn't mean..."

"There's nothing for Molly to know," Sherlock quickly put in, facing the DI, "I told you of our relationship in hopes that you would not stick your nose into every detail of it."  
"You...you told Lestrade that we're together?" Molly asked, her voice rising in pitch just a bit.

"Yes, Molly, I told him. Don't worry about it." Sherlock replied, facing her again, "Now, the body."

"Sherlock maybe we should just leave this case be," John offered, "You and Molly should..."

"Do hear this Harper?" Sherlock asked, resting his forehead against Harper's, "Your father is still trying to keep me from my work after I told him not to. How very inconsiderate, don't you think?"

"Sherlock, really you're being a child," John sighed.

"Well, I am a drama queen" Sherlock mocked, setting Harper back into her carrier, "Your words, mind you."

"Boys, not here," Mary said, stepping in, "Just...get to work."

"That is what I am trying to do," Sherlock snapped, rubbing his forehead, "if everyone would stop pestering me."

"No one's pestering you," Lestrade added in, "We're just concerned."

"Don't be." Sherlock groaned, leaning against the lab bench, "It's giving me a headache."

John and Lestrade exchanged a quick look of worry; "Are you...are you going to pass out?" the DI asked.

"Not if you don't shut up right now," Sherlock gritted through his teeth, slowly sinking down to sit on a lab stool.

"See, you can barely stand," John pointed out, "Molly, can...can you back me on this?"

Molly suddenly felt like a deer in headlights. She had just been off in her own thoughts, trying to figure out what exactly it was that Sherlock was suppose to tell her, and now John wanted her opinion? _'On what?' _She wanted to scream,_ 'This is too much!'_

"I-I, um, I...I have to go." Molly stammered as she ran away from the small group. Her mind was buzzing with confusion as she headed to her office, not daring to look back.

As she closed the door behind her, Molly went over to her desk and plopped down in the chair. She rested her elbows on the desk and covered her face in her hands. So many thoughts were just running around in her mind: What was Mary talking about? What had Lestrade meant in that text? Why had Sherlock looked so pale and worn down? What was going on? All she could hear was Sherlock's voice, repeating those awful words over and over again:

_"...this is my confession: I think I'm dying, Molly."_

"_...I think I'm dying, Molly."_

"_...I'm dying, Molly."_

Suddenly, the sound of the door to her office opening broke her from her morbid thoughts. She quickly lifted her head and her eyes immediately locked with those of her lover's.

"Molly," Sherlock asked, stepping inside then shutting the door, "Don't shout at me."

"What makes you think I'm going to shout?" She snapped.

"Because your upset, as you rightfully should be, and have every reason to shout at me," he replied. He then walked toward the desk with caution and took a seat on the edge, making sure not to knock anything over.

This was his 'normal spot'; whenever Sherlock would stop by to visit Molly during her lunch, he would take a seat on her desk and just listen to her chat about the interesting autopsies of the day. Sometimes, she'd ask for his advice and he was more than happy to oblige. It was how they bonded. Other couples would chat about life and share less morbid topics of interest, but not these two. They never could be considered normal, and they enjoyed that.

"Mary took John and Harper home," Sherlock said after a few minutes of silence, "Lestrade left as well."

"What about the body?" Molly asked, looking down.

"The good Detective Inspector insisted that it could wait." he grumbled, "He said that he need to re-evaluate bringing me on this case. Honestly, it's very annoying; first he tells me to come in, then he says he has to think about it. I hate when people are inconsistent. I find it infuriating."

'_I find being the last to know what is going on with my boyfriend's health infuriating', _was what Molly wanted to say but instead she just rose from her chair and coldly replied with: "I can only imagine."

Sherlock watched her move about the office, taking note that she was trying to look everywhere but him. A knot was tightening in the pit of his stomach. He had to tell her his diagnosis, there was no avoiding it now. John was right in saying he was acting like a child

"Molly, love," he began, using a pet name to see if it would help, "you can talk to me. It's something I've always valued in our relationship; our ability to say whatever we wish to each other."

"I'm glad you feel that way, Sherlock," she shortly replied, coming back to her desk but still not looking at him.

"So, tell me," he tried again, "What is it?"

"Hmm? What? Nothing," Molly stammered, putting together some papers, "Nothing's wrong."

"I didn't say anything was wrong," Sherlock stated, going to her side.

"Well, you implied it." she snapped, "Please, Sherlock, don't be...don't be...Well, don't be you right now."

"Don't be me."

"Yes, you know, don't be all_ 'I'm Sherlock Holmes and I know what's going on in Molly's head'_ because I'm very stressed right now. I don't know why I am, probably because I'm tired and I don't know what to do about you. Not that your a problem, you see, it's just that-Well, you being you right now is something I don't need on my plate. And frankly whatever that little outburst between you and John and Lestrade was just enough to piss me off. I mean, I'm not pissed off at you, but I should be because your clearly keeping something big from me and you know how much-"

Molly's slightly out of nowhere monologue was quickly stopped by Sherlock placing his lips against hers in a small, but firm, kiss. Her heart pounded so fast that it seemed for a moment it was going to burst from her chest. Letting her eyes flutter closed, Molly gave into the romantic gesture and wrapped her arms around her lover's thin frame. Her emotions seemed to have melted away just now and her thoughts were silenced.

When they parted, Sherlock just smiled sweetly down at her as if she were the most beautiful being on the planet. He tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear then placed a soft kiss on her cheek: "Feel better?" he asked.

"No...just a little," she mumbled, wrapping her arms around him and nuzzling her head under his chin, "Is this your apology for being so distant these past few days?"

"Is it working?" he asked in a sweet voice, rubbing his hands up and down her back.

"Mmm, sort of." Molly said, "Sherlock, what's...what's going on? Tell me. You promised to stop keeping your health-"

"I know, I know," he quickly said, holding her close, "and I...I haven't been honest with you, Molly. I...I tried telling you, but you chose not to believe me. I'm not blaming you or anything, even though it sounds like I am. I'm not-God, I'm not making much sense, am I?"

"No, not really," Molly replied, "but take your time. I'm here for you."

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and rested his hands on her shoulders. Very slowly, Molly lifted her head so that she could gaze into Sherlock's eyes. He looked sad, just as he did when he spoke those awful words to her. It was then, she knew. She could feel it in her heart the truth behind those words. Sherlock wouldn't lie to her. He would keep his promise.

"I don't say it as often as I should," Sherlock said, "but I do love you Molly Hooper. Please know that."

"I do. I know that," she replied, "And you know that I feel the same, yes?"

"Yes, I do." he said, kissing the top of her head, "Which is why I have to ask something of you, Molly?"

"Anything."

"You know that I don't beg, Molly. But this...this is very important to me."

"What do you need?"

Sherlock chuckled slightly at the sound of those words she had spoken to him so many times before. He then cupped her face in hands and gently rubbed his thumbs over her cheeks: "Promise me that you'll stay." he said, "Promise me that no matter what I tell you, no matter what I confess, that you won't run away and leave me."

"Sherlock, how could you think that I would?" Molly asked, slightly taken back by his words, "I'll never leave you." She rested her hands on his chest and stepped as close to him as possible, closing up the small gap between them; "I promise to never leave you, Sherlock Holmes." she reiterated, "No matter what you tell me now, I'm with you. Always with you."

Their lips then came together for a soft kiss and Molly would have very much liked to have escalated it, but Sherlock pulled away very slowly.

"I meant what I confessed to you, Molly," he whispered, "I'm dying."

_**Thank you for waiting and I hope you enjoyed this update. Don't worry, the upcoming chapters won't just be Sherlock and Molly struggling with his diagnosis. I do have a case planned out and his illness will obviously be a key note to all of that. Please let me know what you thought of this new chapter as your comments are always welcome (even if it's constructive criticism). Writing is a hobby of mine and the support of this story does mean a lot to me. For that, I thank you all. Until the next time, Readers.**_

_**Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	10. Chapter 9: No More Standing Still

_**Chapter 9: No More Standing Still**_

Sherlock Holmes was never tired.

There was many a sleepless night during cases, particularly those that were ranked a ten on his scale of interest and difficulty, but he always seemed to let the adrenaline carry him through. Late nights were nothing new to his constantly changing (and one could argue unhealthy) sleep schedule and those could always be remedied with coffee and the occasional nap between clients. John and Molly were always there to keep him in line, make sure he was always on the top of his game and never let him faultier; they each knew him better than the rest of the world and knew his limits, even if he didn't.

Sherlock Holmes was never tired.

Weakness was something he was very afraid of showing. He had an image, a well known reputation of being nearly invincible, to keep up and weakness of any kind would hinder that. The shooting at Magnussen's office all those months ago was the only time anyone, outside of John really, saw that Sherlock Holmes was a human underneath all that cold armor. A bullet hole in his chest was out of his control though; there was no way of hiding or concealing that kind of weakness. It was the first time Sherlock realized that somethings were out of his control; the human body, this was his real enemy. It always had a way of outwitting him, breaking him, making everything fall apart and out of control.

Sherlock Holmes was never tired.

He was now laying back in a hospital bed, a blanket draped over his legs and an IV pole with a blood bag attached at the top stationed right beside him, helping to pump the dark liquid into his veins. Dark circles resided under his barely open eyes and the sleeves of his purple button up were rolled up to his elbows, making his thin and pale arms painfully visible. He was weak and tired, the two things he dreaded the most in the world. He was barely in control of his body and it was hell. According to Molly, this was helping him but he found that hard to believe.

He had told her everything, down to the last detail of the blood reports. She had just sat there and listened. He couldn't read her or even come close to fathoming what her reaction might be once he had finished. Then, when it was over, she held him, kissed his cheek and only let a few stray tears fall from her normally clear eyes. She wasn't mad, much to his surprise. He had expected her to run, leave in a fit of rage after he told her everything. After all, he had broken a promise to the woman who he had given his whole heart to.

"We'll get through this," she said to him, "I'm not giving up on you, so please don't give up on yourself."

And now here they were, a private room at St. Barts, far from any unwanted attention and, more importantly, where Sherlock could let his guard down. He had agreed to a blood transfusion, the appropriate and logical first step in fighting this illness. Privacy was key in this whole business, which meant employing Mycroft Holmes' help in this whole messy affair. Sherlock had actually called him on the phone, but for some reason the words were hard to formulate:

"Calling for a favor, brother mine?"

"No, actually. I...I was just..."

"Dear me, this can't be a social call. So very unlike you, Sherlock."

"Mycroft, I have to ask-"

"Yes?"

"I'm ill."

"How ill?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"...Is it serious?"

"Yes."

"Tell me."

Mycroft had made all the appropriate arrangements for him: assigning Sherlock an appointment under an alias to ensure privacy, making sure that no information was leaked to the press and, of course, getting John Watson the correct clearance so that he would be able to run the procedure.

"I'm not sure about this," the doctor had said.

"Well, find a way to be sure about it," Sherlock replied, "because I don't trust anyone else to do this for me."

The first hour went by surprisingly quick. A match was identified and then John headed straight to work, prepping the IV and making sure Sherlock was comfortable. He warned Sherlock that the process would be long and tedious, but the detective just took this information with little to no worry;

"I can handle it, John," he had said, "I've been through worse."

Now, it was nearing the fourth and final hour of the process and Sherlock was barely able to stay awake. Molly was holding his hand, ever constant at his side. He could always rely on Molly to be his support and his strength, even when he didn't know he needed it. He always prided himself on his ability to be strong while being alone; his solitude was his greatest asset. But right now, in this his moment of true vulnerability, Sherlock had his Molly and that is what mattered the most.

"You can escape, you know," she said, breaking him from his thoughts, "it's okay."  
Sherlock turned his head a bit so that his eyes could meet hers; "Escape?" he asked, "What? Are you going to roll me out of here on this bed?"

"No, no," Molly said with a small smile, "I meant your mind palace. I can see that your uncomfortable and sleepy so go on, I won't mind. Slip away into your thoughts and I'll wake you when this is over."

"I don't fall asleep when I'm in there and there wouldn't be a point to me 'slipping away', as you call it, right now." he sighed, giving her hand a soft squeeze, "I can take an IV, Molly, this isn't my first time in hospital."  
"But it is your first time getting treatment like this," she replied, "Your body is slowly fixing itself and that can make you tired, exhausted even. I know you don't want to admit that your human, but you are. Being ill is nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, you don't need to put a front up for me."

"I never have," he breathed out, running his thumb over her knuckles, "I meant what I said."

Molly furrowed her brow a bit, but still smiled sweetly at him: "And what was that, Sherlock?" she asked.

"That Moriarty was wrong," he explained, blinking quickly so to keep his heavy eyelids from closing, "You're the one person that matters the most to me, and you always will be."

"I love you too, Sherlock," Molly replied, flushing a bright shade of pink. She then stood up and gently placed her free hand against his cheek. Her soft eyes locked with his as she leaned in close and kissed him. Sherlock gently returned the gesture, giving her hand another small squeeze as his heart rate jumped a bit.

"Hmm, I'm glad your here monitoring me and not John," he said softly as their lips parted, "He wouldn't be providing such...comforts."

"I would hope not," she teased, gently allowing her fingers to trace down his neck and down to his chest. A content smile grew across Sherlock's face as Molly started fiddling with the buttons of his shirt.

"Dr. Hooper, I hardly think that's appropriate," he sighed, "Perhaps, once I'm done here and we are back at Baker Street...you can do your will with my buttons."

"Do my will with your buttons, " Molly giggled, situating herself so that she could lay comfortably beside him, "God, now I know your exhausted. You can barely make coherent sentences."

"Oh I think you know exactly what I'm trying to say." he replied in a low whisper. Sherlock then lifted his shaking arm and carefully wrapped it around her shoulders so to bring her in as close as possible to his body.

With a simple smile, Molly rested her head on his chest and let out a content sigh, running her fingers over his buttons; "I'm sorry about all this," she said, "I know that's not the best thing to say right now, but I can't think of anything else."

"It's alright," he replied, his normally strong voice sounding so weak and heavy, "This isn't your fault."

"Still," she said, continuing to move her hand across his shirt buttons, "I can't help but say it."

"Hmm, well, if anything Molly, you should be proud."  
"Proud?"

"You're the reason I'm in this bed, getting this transfusion...trying."

"So are you saying..."

"That I wouldn't even be here if it weren't for you? Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying."

Molly nervously turned her eyes away for a moment. She knew that he was meaning to be sweet, but it came out more like he was saying that he wasn't fighting for himself, just to please her. It wasn't a bad sentiment, she had to admit, but it didn't feel right. Shouldn't he be fighting this for himself as well? Doesn't he want to live?

After a few moments of peaceful silence, Molly could hear Sherlock's breathing become steady and calm. The grip around her shoulders loosed just a bit and she could feel the deep even rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. Convinced that he had finally fallen asleep, Molly smiled and ran her fingers through his curls; "I'll wake you when it's over," she said again as she moved to sit back down in her chair.

As Molly situated herself to be as comfortable as possible in the hard chair, the door to the exam room opened and John stepped in, carrying a manila folder in his hand. Molly looked up and gave him a meek smile.

"We're still here." she said, attempting to lighten the mood.

"Figured you two would be," he replied, closing the door behind him, "How is he holding up?"

"He says he's fine," she replied, but then she looked down at her lap and sighed heavily, "That's what he always says, you know, when he doesn't want to tell me the truth."

"'_For God's sake, I'm fine. Leave it alone.' _Yeah, I've heard that before." John sighed, motioning his head toward the sleeping detective, "You should have been around when he had a cold."

Molly let out a small laugh then looked back at Sherlock with an expression that could only be described as melancholic. She took Sherlock's hand into both of hers and gently started to massage small circles with her thumbs over his knuckles. John took in how much pain was hiding behind her eyes. He recognized it; he felt the same back when he thought he'd lost Sherlock all those years ago. It was the look of a breaking heart.

He took a heavy breath and sat down in the chair beside her. "Molly," he said, "you know, I've...If you want to talk about this, I'm here."

"John," Molly sighed, making eye contact with him, "I appreciate it, I do, but I'm okay. I'm as okay as any normal person would be in this kind of situation. Sherlock's sick but he's going to get through it...won't he?"

"I truly believe that he will, yes," John replied, "We just have to keep reminding him that this is a fight worth winning. He can live with this condition. It'll be rough, but it is possible."

Molly sucked on her lower lip and then returned her gaze back to Sherlock's peaceful, sleeping face;"And after today, what do we do?" she asked, "Is this going to be a monthly routine?"

"Maybe, I won't know for certain how often he'll need it until I process the results from this one," John explained, "and, truth be told, that will take some time."

"And how are we to keep him occupied otherwise?"

"Well, he has his violin and his experiments."

"But what about his work?"

"I was afraid you were going to say that."

With a heavy sigh, John then handed Molly the file he had been holding. Cautiously, she took it and flipped it open; "William Carson," she said, reading over the papers, "So, Lestrade is allowing Sherlock to take on the case."

"He thinks it will help," John sighed, "Personally, I think it's too big of a case for him to take on right now. Don't get me wrong, Molly, I want Sherlock to keep working and living life as if this whole bloody messy isn't happening, but we have to reasonable about this."  
"You mean, we should talk him out of taking this on."  
"No, just...keeping him working at a comfortable pace."

"He's going to hate the fact we're hovering over his every move."

"It's for his own good, Molly. It's this, or not let him work at all."

Molly skimmed the file over once more and then looked back at Sherlock's peaceful face. In her heart, she wanted Sherlock take on this case, carry on his brilliant work and fight through this illness. Her head, however, was being much more logical:_ 'He will go too far into it,_' she thought, _'This case could very well turn into something more than it's face value. But he needs to work; I have no right to strip that away from him.'_

"He needs this." she finally said with some determination.

"Molly," John sighed, "he's not as strong as-"

"I know that, John, I do. But Sherlock needs his work." she argued, taking Sherlock's hand into her own again as she faced the concerned doctor, "You remember how upset he was when Mycroft took the Moriarty case from him? If we take this from him and make him think he will never work the same way again, then I believe it will surely break him. His work is what he lives for. Who are we to take that away? He needs this."

"Even if it's too much for him now," John pointed out

"Honestly, I believe this will be alright."

"How can you be certain?"

"Because, I'm certain in him." she said with a bit more confidence, "This case seems like a-a six at best. Sherlock will be able to solve it in no time. He has to keep working or else he will give up on fighting this illness. I won't let him give up, John, and I know you won't either. And if giving him cases helps keep his moral up about this whole business, then let him take this case."

"Listen to the woman, John. She makes a valid point." Both letting out a heavy sigh, John and Molly turned their gazes toward Sherlock, who had his eyes cracked open just enough so to look back at them. "Told you I don't fall asleep when I'm in my mind palace," he went on, giving Molly's hand a small squeeze.

"How much did you hear?" Molly sheepishly asked.

"All of it," he replied, "May I see the file?"

"Sherlock, now, before you delve into this," John began to warn, but Sherlock just shook his head.

"Molly's right, John," he said, facing the doctor now, "I need this."

"What you need is to rest and regain your strength," John argued, "You can't tell me your not exhausted right now."

"Right now, perhaps I am." he rebutted, "But let me rest for a bit and then I'll be right as rain...well, as right as someone with a deathly illness can be."

"Sherlock," Molly sighed, looking down at her lap.

"What? It's the truth." he said, "We can't deny it, Molly. I-I thought you were on my side in this."

"I'm on the side of getting you well," she replied, quickly looking back at him with a gaze fueled by a sudden rush of confidence, "I want you to take this case, truly I do, but John has a valid point: If you take on this case and it turns out to be more than what you expected, then you might...you might not be able to solve like you would normally. I'm not doubting your ability to work, even though I know it sounds as if I am. I just want you to be careful."

"And I will be," he said, "trust me. Both of you, please, just trust me."

John and Molly exchanged a small look of uncertainty before Molly handed the folder over to Sherlock's eagerly awaiting hands. As soon as the file was in his grasp, there seemed to be a new light in the consulting detective's eyes. He seemed more awake, looking less ill then he really was, and he even sat up a tad straighter. As his eyes darted over each page, Sherlock began to quietly mumble to himself, much like he would do when gathering up information on a certain topic; verbally taking notes was what Molly often called the odd habit.

"Body. On the shore. Shipyard. Liverpool. Clocked in. Most intriguing." was all either Molly or John could decipher from Sherlock. The doctor was watching his friend with worry while the pathologist had a small smile on her face. This was her Sherlock, the man who could solve a crime at the drop of a hat. No illness was affecting him; he was invincible. Of course, reality was eating at the back of her hopes, but in this moment Molly ignored it. This was good, too good to damper with harsh truths. This was what was right.

Suddenly, the consulting detective looked up from the file and turned his attention to John: "How much longer till I can leave?" he asked (even his voice sounded stronger, but only slightly).

"That was actually the point of me coming in here," the baffled doctor replied, "I was going to unhook you and..."  
"Excellent. Impeccable timing," Sherlock yawned, offering John his slightly shaking arm that the IV was hooked in, "Get this out of me. I have work."  
"You have to rest," Molly quickly added in, standing up and gently taking the file back, "You can start working, but I'm not going to let you run around London the second you get out of this bed."

"No need to mother me," Sherlock replied, looking to her, "and I won't be doing much running with this case, I assure you."

"Is that a promise?" John asked, beginning the process of stopping the transfusion. Sherlock just rolled his eyes in response.

Once John gave her the okay, Molly helped Sherlock to his feet and into his large Balstaff coat. That quick bought of strength seemed to weighing already; Sherlock's balance was a tad off and small beads of sweat were starting to develop across his forehead. Molly allowed him to lean on her just a bit as they made there way toward the door. She wrapped an arm around his waist and he did the same to her; this was perhaps the most physical either of them had been as a couple outside of 221b. They exchanged small smiles; her's saying that everything was going to be alright, his saying that he already knew it.

"I'll get to work on this and let you know the next step as soon as possible," John said with a sigh as he walked out with the couple.

"No need to rush," Sherlock said, "I'd like to focus on this case as much as possible. I figure I can get it done within the week and that's only because I'll be taking...slow, regrettably."

"What does taking it slow mean in your terms?" Molly asked, "Are you actually saying your going to rest during a case?"

"Well, it only seems fair," the consulting detective replied, pulling her in a bit closer to him, "Your letting me work, so naturally, I should abide by your rules."  
"Sherlock Holmes following the rules," John said with a shake of his head, "Now I know your not yourself."

"Only a weak version of me, John," Sherlock replied in a somber tone, "I'm still me and I will solve this case, no matter the cost, I promise you that." He then looked at Molly and placed a soft kiss on the top of her head, "To the both of you, I promise that I will solve this case."

_**Thank you for the support and for reading. This was a slow update, but rest assured that I plan to update faster now that I have a break before my next job. This will start developing into a case very soon so I hope your looking forward to that. As always, your feedback is always appreciated. I sent out some PM and I hope they were received. You all mean a lot to me and I am glad you continue to come back. Thank you, truly, thank you.**_

_**Until the next time**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	11. Chapter 10: Ain't It Some Surprise

_**Chapter 10: Ain't It Some Surprise**_

"_Mary, whatever he's got on you, let me help."_

"_Oh, Sherlock if you take one more step I swear I will kill you."_

"_No, Mrs. Watson, you won't."_

"_...I'm sorry, Sherlock. Truly am."_

"_Mary?"_

Opening his eyes, Sherlock pulled himself up from under the water and into an upright position. The bath water sloshed around him as he tried to bring himself back to reality. Why had that night returned to the forefront of his mind? He was in his mind palace going over clues for the Carson case, there was no need for those old details to appear. Wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his head on his knees, Sherlock tried to refocus his mind. He had lost track of how long he'd been in the bath; lost in his own mind, as always. It was the feeling of that gunshot that brought him back from the depths of his mind. The pain of that shot was now running through his whole body, triggering that dark memory to reappear in his mind and distracting him from everything else.

"Sherlock?" he could hear Molly call to him from the other side of the bathroom door, "Are you alright?"

"Yes. Yes, I-I'm fine," he replied, coughing just a bit, "Molly, I'm fine."

"You've been in there for awhile. Are you sure everything's-"

"I'm fine. It's...It's alright, Molly."

"Sherlock, we don't...you've been working on this case really hard," she continued to push as she gently tapped at the door, "We can stop if-Look, should I call John?"

"It's okay, Molly, I'll be out in a moment," he replied, finally lifting his head, "Keep studying those photos...please. Don't call John."

He waited until her footsteps had faded completely out of his earshot to let out a staggered sigh. They had been working on the William Carson case all afternoon. Despite the stern warnings from both John and Molly, Sherlock dove into the case head first. True, he did take a break every now and then to eat whatever Molly set out for him and or catch up on some sleep, but he still dedicated every waking moment to this case. Unfortunately, his hard work was getting him nowhere.

Every clue or possibly important fact he could pick up from the crime scene photos lead Sherlock down a dead end. Molly had brought him home the autopsy report (since she would not allow him to examine the body himself) but that told him nothing that he didn't already know. It was clear that William Carson was murdered and dumped where he was found, but the question was why. It kept Sherlock awake at night, making him more irritable then Molly could handle:

"Molly, think! Who was this man?" he would spit out, pacing in front of the evidence he had pinned up on the wall above the sofa.

"A-a dock worker, maybe a ship builder." Molly nervously replied; she wasn't really paying attention as much as he thought she was.

"Yes, but _who _was he?" he'd push "Why would someone take his identity? Why would they kill him in the first place? What am I missing? What am I missing?"

There was only so much Molly could do for him in assisting to solve the case. She wasn't John, nor did she try to be, and Sherlock really didn't mind that. He just needed some one to bounce his theories off of and since she was around 221b more than John these days, Molly fit the bill. She wouldn't just sit at his side, but rather just go about her day all the while keeping a close eye on Sherlock and piping in whenever he needed her to reply. But it was days like this when she was more than just his assistant; Today, she was his nurse, watching him closely to make sure his illness wasn't getting the best of him.

Sherlock knew that his illness was affecting his work ethic. He wanted to work at his normal pace, but his body was simply not letting him. There were times in which sleep and nausea would pull the consulting detective away from the world of his work. Sherlock would fight off his fatigue to the best of ability, but even that wasn't enough. Some days, it took much more energy and strength then necessary for him to get out of bed let alone get dressed and work. Today was one of those days.

He had opened his eyes around 9 in the morning. Molly, being it her day off, was already up and cleaning up the kitchen. It had taken Sherlock nearly an hour to get out of bed and dressed, if one could call changing from one pair of pajamas to another getting dressed. Once he had emerged from the bedroom, he dove right into working on the case. No more than ten minutes after he had begun his work, Sherlock's eyelids began to droop. Molly, from her spot in the kitchen, could see his hands start to shake and his forehead furrow in frustration as a headache was clearly beginning to bother him.

"Molly," he finally said, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms, "Can-Damn it, can you-"

"What do you need?" she asked, as always was her way.

"To work, however-"

"You can't?"  
"Not in the way I want to."

Reluctantly, he had taken Molly's advice to just take a long break and wait until he was feeling better. He hated to admit it, but she was right. He didn't feel like himself; he just felt ill.

Now, as he lay in the tub, Sherlock rolled his shoulders back and stretched his body out as much as possible. He just laid in the lukewarm water, staring up at the bland ceiling as if he could find the answers to every question in his mind up there. _'Who killed William Carson?' _he thought, trying to refocus on the case at hand,_ 'Why did they kill him? Come on, think! Think!'_' No matter how hard he tried, the only face coming to Sherlock's mind was Mary's, that cold glare as she pulled the trigger.

Sherlock ran a hand across his face; the clammy texture sending chills down his spine; "Get out of my head," he gritted between his teeth, "I don't want to think about this. Just leave me alone."

It had been almost a year now, a year since that night in Magnussen's office, and yet it was all as prominent in his mind as ever: The feeling of the bullet piercing his chest, the fading of the lights as he started to fall to the ground, and the feeling of loosing control of his entire body as consciousness escaped him and the shock took over. It was a nightmare come to life, possibly the worst experience of his life. So why was he remembering it all now?

Perhaps it was because that was the time in which he thought he was dying. Yes, near death experiences came with the job, he knew that. However, not one event, not even when he was hunting down Moriarty's network, came close to that fatal result. He was always able to cheat death as it were, but that night he nearly couldn't. Just like now; Now, death was right at Sherlock Holmes' door and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Becoming sick was like being shot and this illness was the bullet.

Letting out a long and heavy sigh, Sherlock decided that it was time to leave the bath and return to the world of his work. Maybe then this memory would return to the dark depths of his mind palace. As he gripped the sides of the tub and pulled himself upward, his arms began to shake, as if the action was too much strain on them. He gingerly stepped out of the tub and quickly grabbed his towel from the near by rack. He quickly dried off then slipped into a fresh pair of pajama trousers that he had placed on the sink counter earlier. As he ran the towel through his curls one more time, Sherlock caught the sight of his pale reflection in the steamy bathroom mirror.

The man staring back at him was not a person he recognized. That man was thin, far too thin than any human should be. His rib cage was prominent and sticking through his gray tinted skin. Those eyes that were known for striking others now had dark circles under them and lacked any form shine. Sherlock ran his fingers tips over his cheeks, too sunken in to be considered natural. He looked weak and defeated, nothing at all like the Sherlock Holmes people had come to recognize.

"Dying doesn't suit you," he said to the reflection, tossing the towel aside.

Suddenly, the image started to blur, almost as if it were fading away. Small dots began to speckle Sherlock's vision. He blinked a few times but it was no good; the dots just seemed to multiply. The room then started to spin and he couldn't find his center of balance. As he began to waver in place, he managed to make it over to the toilet. He knelled down and gripped to the sides of the sink as firmly as he could as a wave of nausea hit him. The room seemed to be spinning faster and faster as bile started to build up in his throat. Closing his eyes, Sherlock pleaded with himself: _'Don't be sick. You are stronger than this. Don't be sick.'_

Despite his internal pleas, in a matter of seconds, Sherlock emptied the contents (albeit small) of his stomach. A coughing fit erupted from his chest as he threw up again and again; it seemed that it would never stop. His whole, frail body seemed to shake as he continued to dry heave, his knuckles turning white from gripping the porcelain edges too tightly. Unwanted memories started to emerge in a flash before his mind's eye, too fast for him to focus on any single thought.

"Damn it." he muttered under his breath, "Damn it all."

When the vomiting seemed to have stopped, Sherlock rolled his head to the side and rested his cheek against the cool, porcelain seat. A sudden bought of exhaustion was hitting with full force, so much that he was struggling to stay conscious. Allowing his eyes to flutter closed, Sherlock tried to focus on catching his breath and think of anything but the moment. Those dark memories only continued to grow; they were the ones just like the night at Magnussen's office, the ones he wished he could forget. Desperately, he tried to push them back, but there was no use for it. He could see them all just as if he were reliving each dark moment:

The pool where John had a bomb strapped to his chest.

The hound, mutated before his eyes due to the drug-laced fog.

The rooftop of St. Barts.

Mary pointing the gun at his heart.

Appledore on Christmas Day.

Moriarty's video taunting him.

Laying in a hospital bed as blood was being transfused into his body.

"Sherlock, wake up! Sherlock!"

Upon hearing his name being called, Sherlock shot open his eyes. He took deep and even breaths, gripping to his chest as he tried to regain some control over his body. He didn't quite no where he was, nothing seemed to be focusing properly. As his world slowly but surely came back to normalcy, it became clear that he was no longer alone in the bathroom. Two petite, yet very comforting, arms were wrapped around him, one draped around his middle an the over across his chest. Regretfully, Sherlock turned his head to the side to view his holder even though he knew exactly who it was.

Molly was just looking down at him with a gaze mixed with sadness and relief. A small smile appeared on her lips, but Sherlock knew that it was forced. "You can say it now," he said, staring off into space but addressing her.

"Say what?" she asked, furrowing her brow.

"That you were right, you and John." he replied, "I'm too...I'm too ill to do my work."

"That wasn't what I was thinking."

"You don't...don't have to lie to me," he managed to say, taking her hand from his chest into his own, "Just...give me a moment."

They sat in silence; Sherlock collecting himself and Molly just waiting for what ever was to happen next. What was there to say or do? Sherlock certainly wasn't go to vocalize how exhausted (and frankly embarrassed) he was and Molly wasn't going to bring it up. There was a tension that provided between them; neither just knew how to address it.

"What-what exactly happened?" Sherlock finally asked, breaking the uncomfortable quiet, "I...blacked out."

"I assumed you did," Molly said, "I heard you throwing up and so I came in. You were...passed out and on your side. You scared me, Sherlock. I thought you were...Well, I don't know exactly."

"Yes you do you just don't want to say." he said, leaning back into her hold, "I didn't mean to frighten you."

Molly only sighed in reply. The image was still so fresh in her mind that she hadn't quite wrapped her head around it. He was lying so still and limp next to the toilet when she had burst in that her heart skipped a beat. He was so pale that she thought her worst fear had come true. She thought he was gone.

Trying to shake the morbid thought from her mind, Molly kissed his temple and moved her hand from his waist to venture up his torso._'This would be a nice little distraction,' _she thought. She then gently rubbed the tip of her nose into his damp hair and nipped at his earlobe, a weak spot of his only she knew about. At her touch, Sherlock let his eyes flutter closed as he squeezed her hand.

"Mmm, Dr. Hooper," he sighed, "Is this really..."

"Appropriate?" she teased, moving her hand up across his stomach, "Probably not."

Sherlock let out a breathy chuckle and nuzzled his forehead against hers. Suddenly, Molly's hand stopped over a rough patch of skin just near his heart.

A scar.

The scar.

He had of course told her the story of what lead to the events at Appledore. Molly knew all the details of it: the purpose of the fake relationship with Janine, the plan to sneak into Magnussen's office to obtain those letters, even the identity of the shooter. Yes, Mary Watson's secret was known to her and it hurt her just as much as it Sherlock. She didn't like to think of it.

"You like to pretend that isn't there, don't you?" Sherlock said, breaking her from her thoughts.

"I-I'm sorry." she stammered, looking down at his peaceful expression,"I didn't..."

"So do I." he finished, letting out a deep sigh. Exhaustion was getting the best of him now and it would only be a few minutes until he was fast asleep in Molly's arms.

"Come on," she cooed, shaking him just a bit, "let's get you cleaned up and into bed."

"Mmm, the case," Sherlock lazily protested, "I have to finish working."

"With the state your in right now, love, I think you can afford to miss one day," she replied, helping him to stand. Sherlock let out a small groan and reluctantly gave in to Molly's help. His legs felt like they were made of rubber and if it weren't for Molly's assistance, he surely would have toppled over.

Wrapping one arm around his waist and tossing his limp arm around her shoulders, Molly guided Sherlock out of the bathroom and into bed. He was mumbling to himself, possibly trying to protest but Molly didn't care. She just needed to get him under the covers and safely situated in bed. As she laid him down and brought the covers up to his cheeks, Sherlock immediately drifted off to sleep. Molly placed a final kiss on his cheek then made her way out of the room, shutting the lights off as she did.

It was early in the evening when Sherlock woke up again. He felt cold but overall better then he did before. As he became more aware of his surroundings, Sherlock noticed that Molly was sitting up in bed next to him, intently reading her book. Careful not to startle her, he set a hand softly on her thigh. She jumped up a bit at his touch but then smiled as her eyes met with his partially open ones.

"Now can I call John?" Molly quietly asked as her soft lips gently pressed a kiss against his sweat drenched forehead.

Sherlock let out a breathy chuckle in response; "Now, why...why would you want to do that?" he replied, attempting to make light of the current situation, "I'm perfectly fine." Molly meekly smiled back at him then laid down on her side so she could face him.

"It's a silly question, I know," she said, "But how are you feeling?"

"Better now that your beside me," he replied with a smirk, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. Molly blushed and moved to be as close to him as possible.

"I meant in general," she clarified, "With the case and after what happened a few hours ago? You were out of it; more so than I've seen you in awhile."

"I can't think properly." he admitted, taking her hand into his, "My mind, it's...it's in disarray. All these memories are distracting me from my work. I don't want to think about them. I want to focus."

"Which memories?" she asked. Sherlock just sighed and brought her hand up to rest atop the scar on his chest. She understood exactly what he meant without him trying to explain any further: "Why do you think that is?" she pressed on.

"Don't know," he replied with a lazy shrug, "Perhaps, it's because that was a time in which I thought...I thought was going to die. And now, I really am dying so..."

"Sherlock, don't." Molly breathed out, "You have got to stop saying that."

"This is the third time this week I've thrown up like that and don't try to say it isn't; I know you've heard me get up in the middle of the night." he said, "I'm clearly not getting better."

"Alright then, I'll call John and tell him," Molly replied, " If your treatment isn't working, then John needs to know about it."

"It's not the treatment," he went on, squeezing her hand, "The blood transfusion worked, or...or rather it did all it could. I believe this is...this is just the illness running its course."

"You're supposed to be getting better." Molly quickly said, sitting up, "The transfusion was suppose to help."

"Maybe, we were just too late." he stated in a rather mater of fact manner, sending a cold chill up Molly's spine. How could he say such a thing? Did he truly believe that?

"Sherlock, we talked about this." she said, trying her best not to be frustrated with him, "I don't want to hear you say things like that."

He sighed heavily and slowly turned onto his back so bring himself upright; "Molly, love, I'm not trying to hurt you." he said once he was sitting up, "I just want you to accept where this road will lead us. This case could very well be my last."

"Don't you dare say that." she said as an uncomfortable pang hit her chest, "Your work is your life, you said that yourself."

"Yes, but now I'm starting to loose control of that."

"You're just-just a little distracted right now. You haven't found a good pace to work at yet."

"I don't need a good pace, Molly, I'm-"

"Here, you know what?" Molly quickly said, "I have an idea." She patted his hand then rushed out of the bedroom. A few moments later, she returned with a stack of papers and his laptop; "You're keeping track of everything about the Carson case on here, right?" she asked, sitting back down and opening the computer in her lap, "I can help you. You read through all of your notes here and I can type them up. Maybe in a bit, when and it you feel like you want to get up, we can move to the living room and work on the pictures tacked on the wall. Alright?"

Sherlock just looked at Molly with a soft expression. Why was she being so animate on him working this case?He didn't mind it, really; he rather enjoyed the fact that someone he loved wanted him to work this badly. He certainly didn't want to stop working, but he knew time wasn't on his side. This case was clearly going nowhere and his dwindling health wasn't doing his detective skills any good, so why was Molly pushing this?

"Tell me," he finally said, taking the papers into his hands, "why are you allowing me to work? Had you found me passed out cold on the bathroom floor three weeks ago, you would have taken me to hospital. Really, you should be doing that now, but you're not. Why are you doing this for me?"  
"Because you're Sherlock Holmes and nothing can change that," Molly proudly replied, lovingly looking into his eyes, "It's as you said last week at the hospital: you're still you, just in a weaker state." She then set the laptop aside and situated herself to be facing him head on; "I believe that you can solve this, that you _need _to solve this." she went on with a smile, "It's true, I don't want to think about what the future holds for us now that you're sick, but I know that we can't linger on that. What John says is right; you can't work like you normally do, but I think that you can. You just need a little more help then what you're used to getting. That's why I'm here. I love you, Sherlock, and I'm not going to let your brilliant mind waste away. You promised to solve this case so now I promise you that I will help you in any way I can."

As soon as she was finished, Sherlock leaned forward and placed a kiss on her lips. Molly gladly gave into the gesture, resting her hands atop his bare chest. When they pulled apart, Sherlock brought his hand up to wrap around the back of her neck.

"I didn't expect any of that from you," he said, running his thumb across her jawline.

"Then you must not know me as well as you think," she replied with a smirk, "So, shall we?"  
"Eager, I like that," he said before stealing another quick kiss. When they pulled apart, Sherlock leaned back against the head board then picked up the papers once again. Molly eagerly picked up the laptop and just looked at him, waiting for her cue to begin typing. Sherlock gave her one more smile: "Let me know if you can't keep up with me."  
"Is that a challenge?" Molly teasingly replied.

Sherlock chuckled and looked back down at the papers: "So, let us start at the beginning..."

_**Thank you all so much for being patient with me. This chapter proved to be a bit difficult to write and it took me some time to figure out where I wanted it to go. Hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what you think. Your reviews make my day and I love hearing from you guys. I have written the first part of the next chapter so I am hoping that will be up shortly. Thanks as always for the support.**_

_**Much love and many thanks (and I mean it),**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	12. Chapter 11: This Day Oh, This Day

_**Chapter 11: This Day, Oh This Day**_

"What about this one? The photo of his work place."

"Yes, tack it up. Could be the possible murder site."

"Easy place to steal his identity too, right?"

"Possibly, Molly. Place it on the wall, a little to the left center."

"...Like this?"  
"No, left of the center image."  
"Oh. Of the body?"

"That is the center image, is it not? Use your brain, Molly."  
"Sherlock."

"...Apologizes."

After a few hours in the bedroom, Sherlock and Molly moved their work to the living room. They had set themselves up rather comfortably, working on piecing everything together to come to some form of a conclusion. Sherlock sat cross legged in his chair with his laptop perched in his lap, telling Molly what to tack up to the 'case collage' that was up on the wall above the couch. The little partnership they had set up was working very well between them. Even if they were just going over already established facts, Sherlock felt much more focused and, dare he think it, better.

Unfortunately, this case was reaching a stand still. Connecting what little dots they had was leading them both down one cold trail after another. There was very little to go on and nothing new was coming in from Scotland Yard; it seemed they too were stuck in a rut with this one. According to Lestrade, no one was coming forward to answer questions about Carson. It seemed that the man was alone in the universe: no family, no friends or at least no one who was willing to come forward to claim they knew the man. This only deepened Sherlock's frustration. Clearly this wasn't just some accident; this murder meant something, but what he had yet to figure out.

"So, we know he clocked out of the shipyard around 11PM two nights ago," Sherlock said, flipping through the file in his hands, "The next morning comes and everything is as normal as ever except..."

"Someone, not Carson, has clocked in." Molly finished, staring at the collage of evidence, "Why didn't anyone report that? Clearly his coworkers must have noticed that he wasn't, well, him."

"You'd think so," Sherlock said, half to himself, "However, William Carson did work in a private office at the shipyard, at his own request it seems. So, a closed off individual. That gives us two theories."

"Two?" Molly asked

Sherlock looked up from the papers and gave her a small smirk; "Yes, two," he explained with that tone of self-assurance he always had when dealing with a case, "The first being that William Carson was a secluded individual who was anti-social and wholly dedicated to his work, so much that he requested a private office to purposely avoid any unnecessary human contact. The second being that everyone at the shipyard is living in fear."

"Fear? Of the murderer?"

"Possibly or of something bigger. Whose to say this murderer was working alone?" Setting the papers aside, Sherlock wrapped the blanket that was draped around his shoulders around himself a bit tighter and slowly rose to his feet: "Take a look at what little we have," he continued, walking over to the couch, "We have a man that no one reports missing and absolutely no one to follow up with: No witnesses, no co-workers who suspected something was wrong, and according to Lestrade, no one is talking to the police. Why is that, I wonder? Could it be fear of police interaction on a matter that isn't entirely legal? Or perhaps, is there a large organization at play here and William Carson wasn't exactly playing by the rules? So many theories, too many than need be on a case such as this. Still, it is most interesting."

Molly just looked at him with wide eyes and small smirk on her lips. His eyes clearly sparkled as they darted over the evidence, taking in every minuscule detail; no feverish glaze was preventing him from his work. He truly looked better, better than she'd seen him in a long while. This was Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, rattling off some obscure monologue of information that no one else could come up with. He was standing upright and wholly focused on the evidence before him, not looking a bit ill. It was as if that sick individual, the one who could barely even stay awake this afternoon, had just melted away and was replaced by the genius everyone knew.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught the giddy grin on Molly's face; "What? What are you so happy about?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

"Welcome back, Sherlock Holmes," she said, cupping his face in her hands.

There was a small fire in her eyes, one that only Sherlock Holmes could spark, and he knew exactly what it meant. Surprisingly accepting of a distraction, Sherlock let out a breathy chuckle and shrugged his blanket off so that it fell at their feet. He then nuzzled his forehead against hers, gently nipping at her earlobe.

"'_Welcome back, Sherlock Holmes.' _Huh," he playfully whispered in her ear, setting his hands on her hips, "had I left? Odd, I thought I was in the flat all day."

"Sherlock," Molly giggled, rolling her eyes at his strange attempt at teasing.

"I must have blacked out longer than I thought in the bathroom," he went on, mockingly furrowing his brow, "Huh, I must call John about that. That certainly can't be a good sign."

"Please," Molly said, "stop talking and kiss me." Without another word, they shared a deep kiss on the lips.

That kiss soon escalated as they wrapped each others arms around one another, opening each of their mouths only slightly more to invite the others tongue in. As they began to blindly guide one another toward the couch, Sherlock very gently rubbed his hands up and under her shirt. His fingers were so soft against her skin that Molly couldn't help but let out a content sigh; she wanted him, more than she had ever wanted him before. Once they were close enough, she gave him a gently shove so that he landed on his back on the couch.

"Eager aren't we, Molly Hooper?" Sherlock teased, pulling her on top of him and wrapping her up in his arms again.

"Didn't I tell you to stop talking?" she said, just before their lips came crashing together again.

Sherlock's breath hitched just a tad as she ran her fingers over his bare chest. His heart was racing and his head was swarming. He could feel his strength beginning to wain, a clear sign from his body warning him not to take this any further, but he chose to ignore it. Her held Molly close, kissing her as passionately as humanly possible. He wasn't going to let his illness take this moment from him, not for the life of him. He needed her just as much as she needed him.

For that moment, there was nothing but them.

No case, no illness, nothing.

Everything was right.

When they eventually parted for air, Sherlock gave Molly a sweet smile and tucked a stray lock of hair back behind her ear; "Tell me, Molly Hooper," he breathed out, slowly catching his breath, "why is it that when I work with you, we always end up like this?"

"You're the genius detective, can't you find an answer?" she teased in reply, "And besides, we don't always end working together like this. It's only been a recent development."

"Not really recent," he pointed out very much in the same manner as when he was delivering that monologue moments ago, "Five months, Three and a half weeks, six days, twenty hours and forty-eight minutes."

"Sorry, what?" Molly asked, a bit taken back by his tone

"That's the exact time frame, if you wanted to know."

"Time frame?"

"We've been together for exactly five months, three and a half weeks, six days, twenty hours and, now, forty-nine minutes. So, when you say that us ending our work day like this, in each others arms, is a recent development, you now know the exact time frame. You see? It's not really a recent development now is it? It only just feels that way because, well, we've been working together so much in that frame of time."

Molly furrowed her brow and shook her head a bit in disbelief; "You...you remembered the day we became a couple?" she asked, "I mean- you actually remember the exact moment?"

"Well, yes, of course I do," he replied, raising an eyebrow in confusion, "That's what boyfriend's do, don't they? Remember anniversaries and such?"  
"Whoa, whoa and you just said_ 'boyfriend',_" Molly stated, pulling herself up in surprise, "Your fever's not spiking up again is it? Are you sure you're feeling alright?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows; "I'm perfectly fine," he said, "Well, not perfectly fine for obvious reasons, but fine nonetheless." Not fully convinced, Molly placed a hand on his forehead. "Molly, please, it's alright," he groaned, moving away from her touch, "Why won't you believe me?"

"It's not that," she said, "It's just...I guess I'm surprised you would remember something like that."

"What? The day you and I began our relationship? Contrary to popular belief, Molly, I do have a heart. Did you honestly think that I would delete something like that?"

"Well, you did delete the fact the Earth revolves around the Sun so-" "Oh for the love of-John really needs to stop spreading that information around." the detective groaned, rubbing his hands over his face, "Bad for my reputation."

With a small laugh, Molly situated herself so that she was laying beside him instead of on top of him; "I didn't mean to upset you," she said, drawing an imaginary line with her index finger down his bare chest.

"You didn't," he replied, wrapping an arm around her, "you know that I don't care about what people think of me. No, I take that back. There are a few exceptions to that statement."

"Oh," she said, cuddling up as close to him as possible, "and what might those be?"

Sherlock then turned his head so to look Molly in the eyes. His eyes were clear and full of such honesty that Molly's heart nearly burst from her chest. She loved when he looked at her that way, as if she were the most precious thing in the world. Molly nuzzled her forehead against his as they shared a sweet, gentle kiss on the lips.

"My dearest Molly Hooper," Sherlock sighed, holding her close, "the reason I remembered the exact moment you and I decided to be something more than just friends is because it was the exact moment when I decided to start over."

"Start what over exactly?" Molly asked, "What does that even mean?"

"It means that five months, three and a half weeks, six days, twenty hours and, now, fifty-two minutes ago, I decided that it was time for me to stop pretending to be blind to what's in front of me and take initiative over my...unexpected feelings, as it were." he attempted to explain, "I always knew that you had feelings for me, beyond those of a friendship, and, to be completely honest with you, I had always wanted to reciprocate those feelings. But I never could; my pride and my ego seemed to be holding me back. Sort of like how I've dealt with my illness so far. So, just like how I've been about being sick, I was cold and short with you. But then I almost lost you."

"When you were-I mean, when Mary.." Molly stammered, gently tracing her finger tips over the bullet wound on his chest.

"No, although you did save me in that moment," he replied, taking her hand into his, "I talking about Christmas Day or rather the events that followed. Because of my actions, I almost lost everything: my home, my work, my reputation, John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson. And yet, as I sat on that plane, when I was sure there was no way out, my mind went straight to my work, not all that I had accomplished in my short life span; I thought of you, Molly Hooper. It's part of the reason I came to you as soon as I saw that Moriarty video."

"You...you were worried about me?" she said, more so as a question rather than a statement.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock replied with a smirk, "Does that really surprise you?"

"So, now, five months, three and a half weeks, six days, twenty hours and how ever many minutes later, you still feel the same? About me?"

"Why would you think my feelings have changed?"

Molly shrugged and looked away sheepishly; "I don't know. Maybe I wasn't what you wanted me to be."

Sherlock sighed as he placed his thumb on her chin, slowly lifting her head so to look into her eyes once more: "Molly Hooper, you are and always have been exactly what I wanted you to be: just you. And I wouldn't change that for the world."

They shared a soft kiss on the lips and then just simply relaxed. A tranquil atmosphere provided the room, quite the change from when they were working the case moment ago. A small rainstorm had begun to brew outside; the faint pitter patter of raindrops against the window echoed off the walls of 221b's living room. It was a soothing sound as Sherlock and Molly began to doze off, too content and too relaxed to move themselves to the bedroom.

"We should get you to bed," Molly whispered, sleep dripping from every word, "I had almost forgotten about how sick you were this afternoon."

"Hmm, I would have preferred that you did," Sherlock replied in an equally tired tone.

"Was that the real point behind that sweet monologue and letting me work with you on this case? So that I would not have to think about you being sick?"

"No, I meant every word." Sherlock then let out a heavy sigh and adjusted himself so that he was sitting up on his elbows, "Molly, working this case is refreshing and rejuvenating; We may be hitting a few more dead ends then I would like, but having the work is still a joy to me. Of course, having you by my side is equally as rewarding. As for my words and actions just now distracting you away from my illness, well,...it worked didn't it?"

Molly let out a soft giggle and playfully swatted at his chest. Sherlock chuckled but it quickly turned into a small coughing fit, breaking the moment. With a heavy sigh, Molly sat up and placed a hand on his back to sooth him until the fit passed. Once Sherlock's breathing had returned to a steady pace, he took Molly's hand into his own and gave her knuckles a soft kiss. Carefully, they both rose to their feet; Sherlock wavered a bit but Molly quickly wrapped her free arm around his middle to keep him steady.

"Its, uh, it's the headaches that get to me," he groaned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, "the constant pounding makes it hard to think." He then gave a longing look at the wall of evidence behind them; "Perhaps that's why I'm not getting anywhere with this." he sighed, moving back toward the couch so to look at the wall properly, "It's making me miss something. I'm blind to the obvious."

"That's not true," Molly counterpointed, wrapping her arms around his waist, "You figured out that theory that the other dock workers are afraid of Carson's murderer."  
"But that's just it, isn't it? A theory," Sherlock said, running a hand over his face, "theories only go so far; one needs constant evidence to prove a theory, something this case unfortunately is lacking."

Molly let out a heavy sigh then placed a kiss on Sherlock's cheek; "Come on," she whispered in his ear, "let's get to bed; you feel a bit warm. We can pick this up again tomorrow."

Sherlock sighed and shook his head. Just when he was about to throw in the towel and head off to bed, a photograph caught his gaze. His body tensed up as he stepped closer to the wall, stepping on the couch so to reach up the photograph. Molly watched in confusion as Sherlock removed the tacked up picture of William Carson's office. The consulting detective turned back toward Molly, but kept his strong gaze on the picture in his hands. _'What had he seen?,' _Molly thought,_ 'What had suddenly become clear?'_

"Molly," he said, eyes still glued to the picture, "where did this image come from?"

"Um, from the information Lestrade gave you," she replied, heading over to the desk to retrieve the folder, "He made these copies after the techs snapped them at the scene."

"Yes, he gave me copies," Sherlock said, now tapping the picture against his finger tips, "but this one, this isn't a copy. It's an original."

"It-It can't be," Molly said, furrowing her brow, "But how? How is this an original? Lestrade said-"

"That I wasn't allowed the originals because it would bring up the threat of evidence tampering if this case ever went to trial," Sherlock continued, waving the photo about as he started to pace around the living room.

"Well, shouldn't we call Greg then?" Molly suggested, "Tell him to make a quick copy."

"No, this was meant for me to see, only me. This was slipped in to the folder, but how? No, doesn't matter. Not important. What matters is the picture is here now...And whoever wanted me to see this doesn't want the police involved. This was meant for me, my eyes. Only my eyes."

Sherlock then began to pick up his pace, completely ignoring (or just simply forgetting) Molly's presence. He was tense and alert, as if every nerve in his body was on edge. Molly feared that he was having an episode of some kind, brought on by his illness, but decide against interfering. This was how he was when he was on a case, she shouldn't be afraid. This oddity was actually normal for him. As if to wait for the right moment, Molly just took a seat and listened to Sherlock's rambling:

"An original photograph, taken at the crime scene. It's the only one on the board that reflects the natural light in the room. Stupid, stupid, why didn't you see that? Didn't you notice the difference in texture when you first looked at it? Stupid of you Holmes, why didn't you think? " he went on, his eyes darting across every detail of the picture, "No, not important right now. Don't need to critique yourself. The picture, _this _picture; it has to mean something. It has to be a clue. Is it a clue itself or is there something in it? Why did I get this? Why..."

Suddenly, Sherlock's pacing came to an abrupt stop. Molly stood up again, fearing that he was about to faint, but held back going to his side when he turned to face her. A sly smile was on his lips, one that Molly had only seen when he was on to something clever. To her surprise, Sherlock let out a breathy laugh and shook his head.

"Molly, my dearest Molly," he said, holding the photo out to her, "I really must be thanking you."

"What-what for?" she asked, taking the picture into her hands.

"This case, oh this case," he said, suddenly grasping her shoulders, "Oh, this is exactly the kind of case I needed. You knew it would be, didn't you? It's why you were so eager for me take it on."

"Sherlock, what..."

Before she could finish the thought, Sherlock planted a deep kiss on her unsuspecting lips; "Thank you, Molly Hooper, thank you," he said when they parted.

"What is going on?" she asked, catching her breath, "What did I miss here?"

"Look at the photo, Molly, can't you see it?"

"See what?"

"Look!"

Molly furrowed her brow but did as she was told. She looked over the picture of William Carson's office, nothing catching her eye as out of the ordinary; "What am I suppose to see?" she asked, looking back at Sherlock.

"Oh Molly, my darling Molly, look," he urged, taking the picture back, "The desk. Right there on the desk! Don't you see?"

Molly squinted her eyes and took a closer look at the desk. Then she saw it; the part of the image that was making Sherlock so alive and alert at this moment. So many thoughts were rushing through her mind; what was there to say? What could she say?

"You see it, don't you?" Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer, "You see now that this case isn't just a murder case. God no, it is far from it."

"Sherlock, you...you should call this in," she finally manged to get out, "This could open up a new window into the current investigation."

"This is my case, Molly, I'm turning it over to anyone."

"But, surely..."

"No. This will be mine, and mine alone." Sherlock looked at the image again and smiled; "Besides, this question was for me, was it not? I'll gladly take this chance to answer it."

Molly's eyes then shifted from Sherlock's face to the photograph in his hands. Her gaze was glued to the small, nearly unnoticeable aspect of the image; the vital piece to this puzzle.

On William Carson's desk was a little piece of paper, no bigger than an index card. It laid beside the table lamp, which seemed to have a bit of a spot light on the papers contents. There read a single message, written in thick black ink, most likely a permanent marker. A message that was clearly meant for the consulting detective, and he alone. One that had been echoing through his mind since the day he was escorted off that plane:

**DID YOU MISS ME?**

_**Lots of things happening here in this chapter; I hope that cliff hanger of sorts was enough to compensate for the wait. I'll be getting more into the case now, but I will be keeping the fact that Sherlock is ill still very much in the picture. As always, I appreciate the feedback. I PMed to those who have commented (Hope you received them) **__deby44__**, since you don't have PM set up, I will answer your question here:  
my only unfinished story is "Something Just Made A Little Dent" which is part of my Sherlock/OC series and the only reason I haven't updated is because I felt there was a general lack of interest in it's continuation. I write for the entertainment of others as well as my own enjoyment, but when there's a drop or complete elimination of interest, it's hard to find the drive to keep it going. I do enjoy writing those stories, don't get me wrong; I put a lot of work creating my OC and how she's placed in that world. Hope that doesn't sound rude or disappointing.**_

_**I will try my best to update this soon. Thank you all for reading.**_

_**Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	13. Chapter 12: Everyone's Waiting On You

_**Chapter 12: Everyone's Waiting On You**_

This was madness, complete an utter madness. This case, a simple _'who__-dun-it' _, had just skyrocketed from a 6 to a 10 in a matter of 24 hours. An uncomfortable twisting sensation of fear and regret sat like a rock in the pit of Molly's stomach. This wasn't supposed to be about Moriarty. This was just supposed to keep Sherlock distracted from his illness, help him cope with whatever may come. Now, the case had ignited a flame in him, one that was giving him a strength that had been absent since his diagnosis. On the positive side, this is what Molly wanted for him; on the other hand, this was also very dangerous.

"Sherlock, are...are you going to tell Mycroft about what you found?" she sheepishly asked the next morning. She was sitting at the kitchen counter, a mug of fresh coffee wrapped up in both of her hands.

"Of course not," Sherlock replied as he was bustling about, slipping on his coat and prepping to leave the flat for the day, "this is my case."

"I didn't think the whole Moriarty affair was especially yours, Sherlock," Molly commented, "I figured that since the man is considered a national threat and your brother is head of the investigation-"

"He doesn't need to know about this." Sherlock quickly said, tying his scarf around his neck, "Don't try to give me the whole _'but Sherlock shouldn't your brother, the British government, know about this?' _speech, Molly. This simply does not concern him."

"So, I hate to ask it but, what are you going to do now?"

"Head over to John's, inform him of this new development, then we'll most likely head to the crime scene."

Molly sat up straight, giving Sherlock a wide eyed look; "You're-you're going to Liverpool?"

"Well, yes Molly, that is where the crime scene is." he replied with a chuckle, "Do I need to tell you that I'll be home late as well? I assumed you figured out that I'd be heading out there already. Don't tell me your getting slow, Molly."

"No, I-I just assumed that you'd want to work from home." she replied, tracing the rim of her cup with her index finger, "How long do you think you'll be out there?"

"As long as it takes," he replied, propping up his collar. Sherlock then spun around to face her properly and held his arms out to his sides; "Well, how do I look?" he asked, "Would you guess that I'm a sickly man on his last legs?"

"Sherlock," Molly sighed, shaking her head, "don't say things like that."

"I meant no harm in it." he stated in a rather _matter-of-fact _manner, "But it is the truth; I'm sick and can sometimes barely make it through the day."

"Then maybe you shouldn't go." she quickly said, a cold tone to her voice.

"Aren't you the one telling me to keep going?" he asked with a scoff, "Or have you suddenly taken John's side and are suggesting I stay shut in forever?"

"That's not what I'm...You know, what? Never mind." she grumbled, biting down on her bottom lip and looked down at the cup of cooling liquid in her hands.

Sherlock let out a small chuckle then leaned in to place a kiss on her cheek; "Don't worry about me, alright?" he whispered in her ear, "I'll be-"

"Fine, yeah, I know," she quickly finished for him, "You're always...just fine."

"I'll have John with me every step of the way," he went on, continuing to ready himself for the day, "I'm in the safest, and quite frankly the best, hands I could ask for."

Molly didn't reply; in fact, she had tuned him out as she delved into her own personal thoughts. She didn't want him to go and not just for sentimental reasons. Last night was rough, one of the roughest they had gone through in quite some time.

Molly had assumed that after finding Moriarty's connection to this case, Sherlock wouldn't be able to fall asleep; he was giddy, almost like a child on Christmas morning. Surprisingly though, after washing his face and changing into fresh pajamas, Sherlock took his medicine, crawled into bed beside Molly, placed a kiss on her cheek, then fell right asleep. She didn't know how much time had passed when she was awoken by a loud crash and then a string of curses coming from Sherlock.

Fearing the worse, Molly immediately turned on the light. Sure enough, Sherlock was curled up on himself, laying in the doorway of the bathroom, moaning and drenched in sweat. She quickly ran to his side and knelt down beside him.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what's happened?" she had asked, rolling him over onto his back so that she could look him over properly. What met her eyes, made her heart sink to the pit of her stomach.

Sherlock was as pale as a ghost; the only touches of color on his face were the tints of a sickly gray, highlighting his features. His eyes were fogged by a feverish glaze, deluding any trace of that shine his unique eye-color, and lazily darting all around the room. His curls were pressed to his forehead by the sweat pouring down his face; clearly the fever had come back and was spiking. Just a few steps away from where he was lying, there was a small pile of sick, traces of which were still on the corners of Sherlock's chapped lips.

"No," Molly breathed out, stroking his clammy cheek, "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"Mmm...My...My head," was all she could understand from his groans, "Mmm...I-I...can't...no..."

Molly had never heard such desperation or need in his voice. He sounded so lost and broken. Her mind was screaming at her to call John or at least an ambulance, but she was frozen. All she could think to do was to get him back to bed. In all honesty, she didn't know if that would help or hurt him more. Very carefully, Molly brought Sherlock up to his feet and then guided him back to bed.

"Moll-Molly?" he moaned, "What...what's happening..."

"Shh, it's alright," she assured him, "Stay with me." She then gently laid him down on his side, atop the sheets, and knelt down beside him; "Sherlock, I'm here." she cooed, running her hand through his sweat drenched curls, "It's okay."

"Mmm...cold...no no warm..." he mumbled, barely coherent as his glazed over eyes darted about the room, "Molly."

Placing a reassuring kiss on his cheek, Molly rose to her feet. She then quickly ran to the kitchen, carefully maneuvering around the mess, to grab a dish rag and bowl of water. When she returned with the items, Molly sat down on the edge of the bed and flicked on the bedside lamp.

"I'm here, Sherlock. I'm right here." she said, dampening the cloth as she set the bowl down, "Stay with me, okay?"

"The...the gun." he groaned

"The gun?" she asked, gently stroking the cloth across his forehead, "

"Mmy-Mycroft...had...tell I'm sorry...so sorry." he breathed out, clearly slipping away from consciousness.

"J-just rest." she whispered, trying to hold back some tears, "Go to sleep. I'll watch over you."

Time seemed to come at a stand still; Molly didn't know how long she she sat beside him, waiting for God only knows what to happen next. Here was a man, _her_ man, laying barely coherent and mumbling off nonsense, and there was nothing she could do to. This illness, clearly becoming something more than just a blood disorder, was slowly taking apart the man that was Sherlock Holmes. All she could do was wait for something, anything really, to make it all stop.

"Molly...I...I can't." he groaned before drifting off into a feverish sleep.

"Can't what? What can't you do, Sherlock?"

"Do...this an...anymore."

Molly instantly froze, slowly registering the words he had muttered.

_I can't do this anymore._

Was he giving up?

Was he coherent enough to make such a statement?

What was happening?

"Molly, did you hear me?" Sherlock asked, bringing Molly back to the present from her deep thoughts. He was completely dressed in his signature coat and scarf now, just staring at her as if waiting for a response.

Molly could only look back at him with a small, innocent smile: "Hmm, what?" she asked, "Sorry, I wasn't listening. I was just-"

"Thinking about last night." he finished for her in a solemn tone, "Don't bother denying it. I could tell."

Molly felt her cheeks flush as she bit down on her bottom lip in embarrassment: "Please tell me you don't remember all of that." she said, "Because I would certainly like to forget it."

"I can recall fragments," he replied, running a hand through his hair, "Enough of it that I could come to the conclusion that it was a rather unpleasant night for the both of us, more so for you really."

"To put it lightly, yes," she mumbled, but he could hear her.

With a heavy sigh, Sherlock held a hand out to her and gave her that side-mouth smirk that always melted her heart; "Come here," he said in a soft tone.

"Shouldn't you be getting going?" she asked, raising an eyebrow, "I'm sure John won't want to-"

"Molly," he tried again, "could you just come here...please?"

With a sigh, Molly rose to her feet and walked over to him. Sherlock smiled as he took her hand into his own. He then took her other hand into his, smiling at her and never breaking eye contact. Molly's heart started to flutter; she'd be lying if she didn't admit that those eyes of his always brightened her mood. Very slowly, Sherlock took a few steps toward her, closing up any space between the both of them.

"I'm sorry about last night," he began in a soft whisper, "yes, I know it was all completely out of my control, however, it doesn't make the fact that you had to witness it all any better. I must admit that I feel guilt over that."

"You shouldn't." Molly sighed, "It's like you said; it was out of your control. You're just...you're sick and things like that are going to happen. Not that that makes them okay, I know, but it's a fact. I have to learn to face those facts and let you continue on being you even though you might-"

"Molly, your rambling." Sherlock chuckled, cupping her face in his hands, "Listen to me, alright? What happened last night will happen to me again and for many more nights to come. Molly, it will get worse, you know that. I can fight it, I can take my medicine and I can keep living my life as if nothing were the matter, but that doesn't change reality. I hate that you will have to see me weak and broken. Believe me, I would love to change it all, make everything easier for you, Molly, but I can't. There are many things in this world that I can do; curing myself of this illness is sadly not one of them."

"I know that," Molly sighed, wrapping her arms around his middle, "Trust me, I am well aware that there is no magical, quick, cure to fix you. I mean, not that your broken or anything. No, you're fine, well, not fine. You say your fine but I know that your not."

"Molly, rambling."

"Now you feel fine and that makes sense because you have moments of feeling fine, but what if when your out there and you're not fine. Should I call John? Maybe I should. Just give him a heads up about last night."

"Molly..."

"I'm being too much. You told me not to be too much. I'm sorry, I'm over thinking it all. But then again you might-"

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock quickly brought his lips down to crash upon Molly's in a passionate kiss. Molly lost her balance for a moment due to the shock but then slowly gave into the romantic gesture. She allowed her eyes to flutter closed as she wrapped her arms around Sherlock's thin frame. For a moment, she'd forgotten the time and, quite simply, just didn't care about anything else. This, right now, was perfect.

"I'll call you when I'm on my way home," Sherlock whispered when they parted, "You should be getting ready for work."

"Hmm? Oh! Shit," Molly cursed as her mind came back to reality, "I'm going to be so late!" She then quickly grabbed her purse off the kitchen counter and rushed over to check her make-up in the mirror above the fire place.

Sherlock just leaned against the door to the landing, watching her with a loving gaze; "You won't be late if you leave now," he said with a smile.

"I can walk out now, yes," she quickly replied, tying her hair back, "but then I'm going to have to grab a cab and who knows how long that will take."

"Then share a cab with me. I had called for one earlier this morning to take me to John's. I'm sure they won't mind swinging by Barts first though." Sherlock offered, holding his hand out to her again, "Besides, this way I can spend at least a few more moments with you. Who knows how late I will be this evening."

Molly blushed as she turned on her heel to face him; "Listen to you, Mr. High-functioning Sociopath, sounding all sweet and sentimental." she teased, taking his hand, "So unlike you."

"Don't push it." he replied as they headed out. When they reached the front door, Sherlock turned Molly about so that they were facing one another; "I'll be alright," he said, looking deeply into her eyes, "Please, Molly, don't worry about me. I can handle Moriarty."  
"It's not Moriarty I'm worried about," she replied, placing a hand over is heart. They shared a knowing look then exchanged a quick kiss before heading out the door.

* * *

"No."

"John."

"Sherlock, I said no. How- Have you even talked to Molly about this?"

"Yes, and she's fine with it."

"I doubt that."

"Look, John, why are you being so negative about this?"

"Because I'm your friend! It's why I'm telling you no! No, I will not go with you to Liverpool. No, I will not watch your back as you go chasing after a hunch that Moriarty is still out there."

"John, you know he is!"

The flustered, former army doctor rubbed his hands over his face and leaned back in his chair. He had been sitting there a full hour-an hour meant to be his down time before jumping back into the flow of a busy work day-listening to Sherlock explain his master plan to track down Moriarty. It was a ridiculous plan in his mind; why on Earth did Sherlock think that by going to the crime scene Moriarty would reveal himself? The criminal mastermind had been in the wind ever since that video appeared. There had been no sign of the man, no inkling that he was back in any aspect of the crime culture of London, nothing! This apparent note was the only shred of 'evidence' Sherlock had on Moriarty, the kick start of a wild goose chase in John's opinion.

"Look, Sherlock," he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "You know, you more than any one on this planet know, that I would love to put an end to Moriarty. I want to see him locked away and sentenced for everything he's done, but this?! This is you leaping on a hunch."

"'_A hunch'_, how quaint," Sherlock scoffed, pacing in front of John's desk, "Since when have I ever acted solely on a hunch?"

"But you can not possibly know that this is the clue you've been waiting for," John rebutted, "I know you were upset when Mycroft took over the entire investigation into the video message-"

"This isn't some retaliation due to a childish feud, John. Why would William Carson have a note on his desk, clearly not his own writing, that just so happened to be the exact words Moriarty taunted me with nearly six months ago?"

"It wasn't just you he was taunting."

"That is beside the point. The point is that Moriarty has a connection to William Carson and I intend to find it. Won't you come with me?"

"Sherlock, I...You know that I would if I could," John finally sighed, "But I have a family to care for; Mary and Harper need me."

"You'll be gone for a few hours, a whole day at most," Sherlock said, "Stop using your family as an excuse; I'm a grown man, I can take it when you tell me no."

"I can think of a countless amount of moments that contradict that statement," John chuckled, "Look, can we discuss this later? I have a 1'o clock."  
"They are here." Sherlock proudly stated, opening his arms out to his sides, "Hello."

John furrowed his brow and looked down at the paper schedule on his desk; "You...you actually made a doctor's appointment?" he asked, giving his best friend a questioning look, "By yourself?"  
"Yes, I thought that was implied with my phone call this morning." Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes, "Mary said she wrote it down in your books."

"Does Molly know?"

"...No."

"Sherlock."

"I'll tell her, I promise. Can we just get on with it?"

"Fine, well, okay then," John said, stepping into the role of doctor, "Take off your coat and scarf then have a seat." Sherlock did as he was told then tossed his Balstaff and scarf atop John's desk (much to his friend's annoyance). "Alright Now, open up." John continued, taking out the thermometer, "I need to take your temperature."

Reluctantly, Sherlock plopped down in the chair opposite John's desk and propped his legs up on the desk; "I'm not a child." He said, leaning back as far as he could, "You don't need to boss me around."

"No, but you are sick." John replied, "and I'm a doctor and this is my office. So what I say goes."

"Fine." Sherlock sighed, running his hands through his messy mop of hair.

"Good. Now, you feeling any better than this morning when we spoke? Any of those symptoms from what you described from last night coming back?"

To John's annoyance, Sherlock snatched the device from his hands and twiddles it in between his fingers: "Funny," he chuckled, examining the thermometer, "I give you a call at the crack of dawn, telling you that I spent the majority of my night in a feverish haze after vomiting all over my bathroom floor and the first question you ask is 'Are you feeling any better?'

John rolled his eyes, snatching the thermometer back and placing it in Sherlock's mouth. After a few minutes, the device beeped and Sherlock pulled it out to view the results; "38." he read, before John even got a chance to look down at it, "Huh, mild, not too bad. I am a bit dizzy at the moment, now that I think about it. Maybe that's why."

John rolled his eyes once more then took thermometer back to it's proper place desk. Without another word, he went about his regular routine of a check-up: checking Sherlock's blood pressure, testing his pupils responses to light, monitoring his heart rate, etc. Through out the small exams, John took note of how calm Sherlock was. It was as if the results or even the tests themselves were nothing to him. He was being so accepting and so at ease with it all that John feared that his friend may have come to the appointment on something (of course, the lack of dilated pupils trumped that theory).

"Okay, mild fever, your reflexes are still in check though," he began to list off once he was finished, "and last night you experienced some vomiting, dizziness, loss of balance...Anything I'm forgetting?"

"I blacked out," Sherlock added, laying back again and folding his hands over his chest, "that might be important."

John let out a heavy sigh and shook his head; "Do you know what I'm going to tell you?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"Don't continue with this case because your illness has progressed to a much more dangerous stage," Sherlock replied, closing his eyes, "Have I got that right?"

"In so many words," John sighed, "Sherlock, please, this is serious. At the rate your illness is progressing, we are going to reach a point where I won't be able to help. As your doctor, I'd have to admit you to a hospital-"

"I don't want to spend the rest of my days laying in a hospital bed," Sherlock quickly stated, opening his eyes and sitting upright, "I won't do that to myself or Molly."

"Molly?" John asked, furrowing his brow, "I would think your girlfriend-sorry, your partner or whatever you two call each other-would want you to be in hospital getting the best treatment possible."

"It's not that," Sherlock went on, "she can't-I don't want her to see-John's she's seen me at my lowest and my weakest and I don't want that to be the last image she has of me. I want to finish this case and then...then we'll see where my health stands. I want her to see me finish something with the same amount of strength as I've always had. I won't be weak in her eyes, not if I can't help it."

Dumbfounded, John stared at Sherlock with a smirk on his face; "Well, well," he said with a chuckle, "Sherlock Holmes, I do believe you are in love."

"Any idiot can see that, John," Sherlock replied.

"Then why not tell her about your appointment today?" John asked.

"She doesn't even know I called you this morning," Sherlock admitted, "She thinks I was going to drop by your place and drag you off to Liverpool."

"Well, you did do that...sort of," John said, "minus the dragging off to Liverpool part."

"You haven't said yes yet."

"No, but I did say no."

"...No changing your mind then?"

"Sherlock, I'm needed at home," John sighed, "and, honestly, I don't support you running off to solve any sort of crime, not in your condition."

"So, you won't go with me because you don't want me to make myself sicker, is that it?" Sherlock asked, "John, I'll become sicker no matter what I do. Not following a lead won't prevent that."

"I know, I know." John sighed, but then his eyes suddenly perked up as an idea came to his head: "Take Molly."

"What?" Sherlock scoffed, "What are you saying?"

"Just, hear me out on this, okay," John went on, "You don't want her to see you weak, you've already done the majority of work on this case with her and she's a doctor. That eases my mind knowing that someone with medical training would be at your side."

Sherlock furrowed his brow in thought. He honestly never even considered Molly to come along with him to the crime scene. Yes, she was already very well educated on the crime itself plus it wouldn't be the first time she accompanied him on the leg-work portion of case work. She knew how he worked and was comfortable with it. Plus, he wouldn't lie and say that her medical knowledge wouldn't come in handy for both the case at hand and himself. Suddenly, it became very clear to Sherlock that Molly was already his perfect assistant. She wouldn't replace John, of course, but she'd make fine, a very fine, substitute.

As the thoughts became clear to him, Sherlock jumped out of the chair and snatched up his belongings; "Thank you, John, as always," he said, slipping into his coat, "I'll keep you updated."

"So, wait, that's it?" John asked, "You're just heading off to Liverpool?"

"Not right away," Sherlock replied, "I'll be stopping by Barts first."

"Sherlock," John called out just before the detective stepped out the door.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, turning on his heel.

"Just...be careful." John sighed, disappointed in himself for not thinking of anything else to say.

"John, my friend," Sherlock replied with a smirk, "when have I never not been careful." With a wink and a click of his tongue, Sherlock took off leaving John to just watch as he disappeared from sight.

_**Thank you for the continued support (despite my unpredictable updating schedule). This was sort of two chapters mashed into one; hope it made sense and wasn't too jumbled. Please let me know what you think as your responses are always welcome (even the constructive critique because, hey, nobody's perfect). To those who have reviewed, I hope you received my PMs; I thank you for taking the time to review. I am thinking about making a tumblr just for my writing but I don't know what response it will receive. What do you all think? Would that be something you guys would like to see? I don't know, it's just a thought :)**_

_**See you in the next chapter!**_

_**Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	14. Chapter 13: How Do We End Up Here?

_**Chapter 13: How Do We End Up Here?**_

The clock ticked on as the 9 o'clock hour came to a close. Molly was elbow deep into an autopsy of an elder male (cause of death: heart attack, naturally). Surprisingly, her day was going by much smoother and quicker than she expected. Sherlock-or rather the taxi he had accompanied her in-had pulled up to Barts, she exchanged a quick peck and a whispered 'solve this one quick' with Sherlock and then went about her day as normal. She honestly thought her mind would continue to drift to thoughts of doubt and worry about Sherlock, but it was quite the opposite. It was like he had told her, John was with him so what could possibly go wrong? John would watch over him, make sure he wouldn't push himself too far.

It was fine, all completely fine.

Nothing was amiss.

As she sewed up the man's chest cavity, humming a happy little tune to herself, her cell phone gave a quick buzz from the inside of her coat pocket. Molly disposed of her blood stained gloves then dug out the device to read the waiting text:

_Have a wonderful trip! The aides can pick up your shifts-Mike_

Furrowing her brow, Molly began to type a reply. Why on Earth would her boss send her a message like this out of the blue? Surely it was a mistake; perhaps it was meant for a Melinda or a Megan or some other M name in Mike's phone. Just as she was about to hit send, another text came in:

_Be careful. Contact John or me if anything happens.-MW_

"Mary, what are you talking about?" Molly muttered as she stared at the screen in utter confusion. What did she need to be careful about? Wasn't John with Sherlock? Suddenly, the double doors to the morgue swung open causing her to spin around on her heels to face this unexpected guest.

"Molly Hooper," that instantly recognizable voice boomed as its owner waltzed into the room, "my dearest Molly Hooper, always a pleasure to see you."

"Sherlock," Molly said, jumping back a bit in surprise, "What are-But I thought that-Where's John?"

"Hello to you as well. I'm doing well, thank you for asking." Sherlock teased as he came up closer to her, setting his hands on her waist. Before Molly could utter a reply or a voice one of the many questions clouding her thoughts, Sherlock placed a soft kiss upon her lips. She aloud her eyes to flutter closed as she gave into the unexpected (yet very welcomed) gesture. Something, though, felt very off about the whole moment; why was he here? Shouldn't he be gone by now?

"Heart attack?" Sherlock asked when they parted, nodding toward the freshly sewn up corpse on the slab.

"What? Oh, um, yes." Molly replied, wrapping her head around the current moment, "He was wheeled in this morning."

"Ah, so it's a fresh one! Always my favorite." Sherlock said as he began circling around the slab, giddy as a child at Christmas, "May I?"

"Oh, well," Molly stammered, "I, um, I did just finish up-"

"Look at this discoloring around his fingernails," Sherlock rattled on, "Fascinating."

"Oh, is it?" Molly asked, "They are just tobacco stains."

"Mmm,yes, but it's the type of tobacco stain." he explained, "So much to tell about a person from their stains, wouldn't you agree? A whole history hidden behind mark-ups and messes."

Molly just watched her lover circle the exam table with glee. She could've sworn he was humming the same tune she was just moments ago. Despite the odd moment, Molly found herself entranced by Sherlock Holmes; the way he owned the room, the air he carried about him.

"Molly," Sherlock said with a chuckle, locking his strong gaze with hers, "You're staring, love."

"Sorry, sorry," Molly stammered, shaking her head but she then froze: "Did you just call me 'love'?"

"Yes, I do that on occasion," he said with a smile, "You seem quite distracted now, Molly. Is everything alright."

"It's...It's fine," she replied, "I just-Well, obviously, I wasn't expecting you."

"Yes, yes. I should be in Liverpool by now, shouldn't I?" Sherlock chuckled, a devious smirk on his lips, "Had to make a few pit stops first. Get my things together, check in with Mrs. Hudson...pick up my assistant."

His eyes were sparkling with a suspicious shine, one that made Molly a bit uneasy. He only had that look if he was about to surprise her, an act that she was always cautious about. The trouble with Sherlock Holmes was, though, no one could ever figure out what exactly he was hiding behind this gaze. Was it good? Bad? A bit of both? Even Molly, the woman who could read him like an open book, could not figure it out.

"Your assistant," Molly said, moving away from him slightly so she could put away her autopsy equipment. "I thought you saw John earlier, after you had dropped me off,"

"Yes, for an appointment." he replied, following her around the lab in a manner that was similar to that of a lost puppy, "Nothing new to report, by the way. Still sick, still dying." Molly stopped in her tracks and gave him a cold, over the shoulder, glare; "Bit not good?" he asked, already knowing the obvious answer.

"What do you think?" she replied, returning to work, "Never mind, don't answer that. Is John waiting in the cab?"

Sherlock let out a small laugh; "I didn't take a cab over here."

"Didn't you?" Molly asked, looking at him in confusion.

"Nope," he replied, adding an extra emphasis on the 'p' as he moved to stand directly beside her, "I drove."

"You...drove."

"Yes, I can drive, Molly, it's not that difficult."

"No, I-I mean, I've never seen you drive before."

"That is because I do not own a car. I rented one solely to take me to Liverpool...and then elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?"

Sherlock sighed and took both of Molly's hand's into his, causing her to drop her medical equipment onto the tray with a clang. His gaze now could only be described as sweet and enduring (if ever Sherlock Holmes was capable of expressing that kind of emotion). Molly's heart pounded but her mind was telling her not to get too excited right now. _'Something is amiss,' _she told herself,_ 'Talk to him.' _But before she could speak, Sherlock went on;

"You'll be coming with me on this case," he said, never breaking eye contact with her as he guided her toward her office door, "I've spoken with you boss, or rather I got Mycroft to speak with him. You will be paid for your time away, how ever long that may be. I expect this case to take much longer to solve than I had anticipated and will cause me to be out of London longer than I wish as well. Doubt worry, I've packed you a bag. You'll be set. John made it very clear to me that you were a much more appropriate assistant for this case then him. Besides, he has a family to care for and, yes, I didn't think about that when I initially went to visit him this morning."

"Sherlock, I...I honestly don't know what to say," Molly stammered, trying to stop herself from moving with him, "I can't just-You can't expect me to just...Sherlock, my work is..."

"Very important, I know," he finished for her, "But this is important too! I have finally got Moriarty. I have physical evidence. I have a place to start my chase. Won't you help me finish this whole affair off? Won't you help me find it's ultimate end?"

Molly could not think of a single thing to say. He was asking, no demanding, her to accompany him on this case. Her head was telling her to say no, but her heart was saying yes a thousand times over. She wanted him to solve this, to forget about his illness and just work, but she couldn't just drop everything and leave. That wouldn't be ethical..but ethical wasn't part of being with Sherlock Holmes. With a heavy sigh, and internally regretting the words she was about to say, Molly gave Sherlock's hands a small squeeze:

"Let me lock up my office. When do we leave?"

* * *

The gray clouds above started to gather into a seemingly unwelcoming clump above giving the melancholy day a perfect backdrop. Rumbling of thunder could be heard echoing in the distance; a storm was coming, but nothing too out of the ordinary. The blowing wind sent a chill up Molly's spine, causing her to wrap her coat around her body even tighter. She was standing in the doorway of the office formally belonging to William Carson, a small note pad scrunched in her hands. Her gaze was focused on Sherlock as he examined the messy work space. A young man, the one who had very proudly stated was "in charge around here" upon their arrival, stood in the middle of the office with his arms crossed across his wide chest and watching the consulting detective with a look that rivaled that of a hawk's.

"Yer not going to find any-ting of value in 'ere, Mister Holmes," he said, "Yard came through 'ere and whipped it all clean."

"That may be, but Scotland Yard always manages to miss something," Sherlock replied, carefully moving around some papers on the desk, "Besides, I know exactly what I'm looking for."

"Oh? An' what might that be?"

"The key."

"Key, sir?"

"Yes, the key to this case."

The young man furrowed his brow then turned his gaze to Molly: "What's he going on about?" he asked her, motioning his head toward Sherlock.

Molly simply shrugged, deciding that it really was not her place to answer any questions or voice a comment about the case. In all honesty, she felt very out of place at this crime scene. This of course was not her first time out with Sherlock Holmes on a case, but this felt very different than before. Perhaps it was the fact that he had just strolled into Barts morgue and told her that she'd be accompanying him to Liverpool, taking her more or less by surprise.

The trip to the dockyard had been silent. They weren't mad or cross with one another; there was simply just nothing to say. The thought of texting John crossed Molly's mind, but she decided against it. _'Best keep my focus on the here and now,'_ she told herself as she watched the world speed past her window, _'Sherlock is too full of surprises right now for me not to remain in the present.' _

She could not help but let her mind wander toward Sherlock's illness, though. Try as he did to hide it, Sherlock was exhausted and Molly could see it. His energy simply wasn't what it should be. He looked anything but well rested once their drive went underway. Molly was about to offer to take the wheel at one point but decided against it in fear of sparking some unwanted argument; _'The case is what's important,' _she told herself,_ 'Focus on the case.'_

"And here it lies," Sherlock said with a light chuckle as he picked a small piece of note paper up and held it in both hands as if it were the world's most precious gem, "Ah ha! Take a look at it Molly. This is a glorious piece, wouldn't you agree?"

"It's...It's just a piece of paper," the young man said, furrowing his brow even deeper than before, "Is that why you come all the way out 'ere, Mr. Holmes?"

"Young man, I do believe I am finished with your services," Sherlock quickly snapped at him, "Kindly leave my assistant and I to do our work is private."

"Wait, hang on!" he replied, "You can't just..."

"Sir, could we please have the room?" Molly quickly butted in, giving the man a soft expression. After a few mumbled curses, the man left them alone.

"Idiot," Sherlock scoffed once they were alone, "best keep an eye on him though. No doubt he's off to tell the rest of them that we've found the note."

"Whose them and why do they care about this piece of paper?" Molly asked, "I mean, that's all it really is, right? A piece of paper."

Picking up on the meek and doubting tone of her voice, Sherlock looked to Molly with a baffled expression: "Just a piece of-Molly, please!" he said, raising up and walking toward her, "You know this is so much more than a piece of paper. This is a challenge. The start of something that we've only just scratched the surface of. Just a piece of paper? Please."

Sherlock then held the paper up to the light to better examine it, a smirk dawning his lips; "This is so much more, Molly. Oh, so very much more." he went on, never taking his eyes of the evidence, "This is everything."

"Everything?" she asked

"Absolutely everything." he muttered in reply.

Molly couldn't think of a reply. She only just continued to chew her bottom lip nervously and watch as Sherlock examined the paper as if it were the Hope Diamond. She could see the thoughts coursing through his mind a hundred miles a minute. He was lost now; lost in the world of the case and the world of Moriarty. His illness was pushed back to the farthest reaches of his infamous Mind Palace. All that mattered now what the case; this case was paramount.

"Fancy a holiday, Molly?" Sherlock asked, breaking her once again from her thoughts.

"What? Sorry?" she asked, "A...holiday?"

"Yes, a holiday," he repeated, turning his gaze to her now, "Couples do that sort of thing, right? Travel together. Go on outings together. Do...other things of that nature together."

"Sherlock, what in God's name does this have to do with the case?" she asked.

A small smirk grew across his lips as Sherlock prepared to begin one of his infamous monologues of explanation. Molly, on the other hand, knew this and just sighed in annoyance.

"This isn't just paper this note is written on." he explained, ignoring her reaction, "It's a specific type of paper that is used for manufacturing travel tickets, particularly those for sea travel. Easy to find that sort of thing around here; it's a shipyard. But Moriarty wouldn't have just used this paper for nothing. No, he never does anything without a reason, especially if he's leaving me a note such as this. So, taking a look at this fine piece has lead me to find these numbers on the opposite side of his note. A string of them, in fact, written as if in code. But these are not an enigma, far from it really. Care to guess what those numbers are, Doctor Hooper?"

"I'm going to safely assume that they have something to do with sea travel," Molly replied, completely not amused with Sherlock's petty question.

"You assume correctly," he went on, "they are travel information, I believe, going by the order in which they are written; a ship identification code, ticket numbers, a date, time, things such as that. Ticket numbers means there is a reservation for these. In my name? Maybe. No, no, definitely under my name; Moriarty wouldn't use his own. He never gets his hands sets meaning two tickets: one for me and one for you. Moriarty is leading us to the next clue or, if we are lucky, directly to Carson murder was just to grab my attention, I see that now. The real case, the real reason I needed to take this on, is where these tickets will lead us. So, I ask you again, my dear Molly Hooper, fancy a holiday?"

Molly just stood there, staring at him in utter disbelief. Did he truly believe the nonsense that just came from his lips? That didn't make any since. It was all too random, too left-field, too...odd, for lack of a better word. She simply could not come up with a response.

"Sherlock," she finally managed to say, "Are-are you feeling alright? Do you need to sit?"

"I'm perfectly fine," he replied, furrowing his brow, "Why do you ask?"

"Well, I-Do you really want to know?" Molly asked

"...Your not making much sense, Molly. Oh, no wait! Hang on! I see now. Your worried my fever is acting up. Ha! You're always so worried about my health," Sherlock scoffed in reply, "Please, Molly, do try to focus."

"I would if I knew what the bloody hell was going on," she finally snapped; this day had just taken far too many twists and turns for her liking. "You barge into my office, acting like you own the place, and then you proceed to tell me that I'm using up my Paid Time Off to join you on this case which you don't know how long that will take to solve. We spend a long drive completely in silence to this shipyard that I barely have any clue about and now I'm mad and confused and frustrated. I can't focus because I just don't know what's going on. What is going through your mind? Can't you tell me? Just tell me."

Sherlock just looked at her with a blank gaze. He hadn't expect that outburst or her frustration. He thought she would just understand what he meant, what he was trying to tell her. He had a lead, an honest lead, and they were going to have to travel to follow it. Did he really not make that clear just now?

"I'm sorry," he said rather slowly, looking down at his feet, "I didn't mean to, um, upset you."

"No, no Sherlock you didn't upset me," Molly grumbled, rubbing the bridge of her nose, "It's just..."

"I thought you wanted to help." he said before she could finish her thought, "You always want to help. I just assumed-That's my problem, isn't it? I assume so much from you and I never ask what you want." He then lifted his head and walked over to her. As their toes touched and Molly looked up into his eyes, Sherlock took her hands into both of his;

"Molly, I need you. I need your company, your assistance: I need you." he continued, "Moriarty has left yet another clue to his location and I need to follow it. It's something I have to do and I would be-No, no, this isn't coming out right. Molly Hooper, we...I... I should not have barged into the lab without telling you what I was planning. I should not have convinced Mycroft to take with you boss about you taking time away from work. I should not have kept you in the dark and, just now, I should not have just assumed you'd come along with me on wherever Moriarty is leading me. If you wish to return to London, I will drive you back tonight; right now even, if you'd like. I'm sorry I didn't communicate properly with you. I'm...sorry."

Molly let out a heavy sigh and rested her forehead on his chest. Confused by her reaction, Sherlock just slowly wrapped his arms around her in a warm embrace. She returned the gesture and allowed her eyes to close as he kissed the top of her head. They remained like this for countless minutes, both completely forgetting where they were. A sweet form of serenity replaced the tension of the room and time itself seemed to slow. It was a content and needed pause, like a breath of fresh air. Any thought of cases and illnesses were a far distant dream to them. They had each other, that is what mattered.

"I'm not leaving your side," Molly finally spoke, breaking the somber spell, "I can't do that to you."

"You could," Sherlock replied, looking into her eyes, "you have every right to go back to your work."

"And let you go off on some adventure by yourself? No, definitely not." she said, a small smile on her lips. Very slowly, Molly lifted her hand and gently brushed her fingers across Sherlock's cheek; "As much as you loath to admit it, you can not be alone in your...condition." she went on, swallowing the word 'condition' as if it were some ill-tasting medicine, "Moriarty already knows how to play you and if he finds out about your illness-Sherlock, you know he will try to use it to his advantage. I can't let anything like that happen to you. Do I wish you had given me a tad bit more of a notice? Yes, but what's done is done. I'm here now, and I'm going to protect you, no matter what."

"Hmm, isn't that what I'm supposed to do for you?" Sherlock asked with a smirk.

Molly let out a small chuckled then placed a soft kiss on his cheek; "I can take care of myself," she whispered to him, "You just solve this, whatever this is. End this so we can move on from Moriarty and focus on getting you better, alright?"  
"Alright," Sherlock whispered in reply. He looked once more into her eyes before giving her an affirmative nod, signifying that the case was back at the forefront of his mind. Molly just smiled back, but worry was still haunting the back of her brain. Where was this going to lead? What was going to happen?

"Now, it appears you and I have a boat to catch," Sherlock said, tucking a stray hair of her's behind her ear, "That is, we have to find it first."

_**Hello all and thank you for sticking with me. I have been in rehearsals/opening up a new production so that has been my reason for the long wait. Plus, I had a lot of trouble writing this one; it just wasn't going where I wanted it to and the words just weren't making sense. Please let me know what you think of this final product; your guys feedback is very much appreciated and taken into account. **_

_**Since my show is now up and running, I have my days back so I can write. This story will start to get into the Moriarty issue, but Sherlock's illness is still progressing. I have a plan, I assure you. As always, your responses would mean the world to me and I will try to reply back as soon as I can. Once again, thank you so much for sticking with me.**_

_**Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	15. Ch14:Best Worst Mistake You'll Ever Make

_**Chapter 14: Best Worst Mistake You'll Ever Make**_

'_Room spinning. Can't focus. No! Have to focus. Have to focus.'_

Blinking rapidly, Sherlock adjusted his large, black satchel over his shoulder and followed Molly down the small hallway to find their stateroom. He was keeping his gaze on her and where they were going but not without some difficulty. The corners of his sight were blurring and black dots were peppering his vision. The narrow hallway they were walking down seemed to be stretching and bending, like something out of a fantasy novel. Nothing seemed right. Nothing felt right.

'_Dizzy. I'm dizzy. Need to rest. Need to stop. No! Can't stop. Have to go.'_

He could practically feel the color draining from his face as nausea was beginning to sweep over him. Sherlock tried to push forward but every step felt like he was dragging blocks of concrete by his ankles. His whole body ached from some phantom pain running through his nerves. He wanted to stop for a moment, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to do so; his pride was too strong, especially when he was in front of Molly.

'_Don't let her see it. Just make it down the hall. You'll be fine. You are fine.'_

This was all his illness rearing its ugly head, distracting him from the case at hand, keeping him off his best game. The symptoms had begun about halfway into their drive from Liverpool to the port in Southampton. It had been a long drive, even with the short pit stop at Baker Street, and it was clear that it had taken a toll on Sherlock. Molly took the wheel when they left Baker street stating; "You need to focus on what's going to happen when we reach the dock. I'll drive, don't worry." Sherlock knew this was her way of saying; 'Rest, love, I know your feeling ill, but I know you don't want me to say anything.' In his heart, Sherlock knew he didn't deserve her.

They had left William Carson's office shortly after confirming the numbers on the back of Moriarty's note. Sherlock was able to get out the young man in charge of the dock that there was in fact a specific ship Carson was overseeing the final preparations on. It was a passenger liner, brand new, not too large, not too small and it was set to leave Southampton in a day to travel to America across the Atlantic. After searching through the paperwork, Sherlock's name was, indeed, on the passenger list.

"I don't understand it," the young worker had stated, scratching his head in a very odd manner, "That ship ain't even been advertised to the public. Why would Carson-"

"Put my full name, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, and a plus one on a passenger list that contains only 5 other people," Sherlock finished for him, "The same reason you are pretending to act surprised right now: Because of James Moriarty."

The young man's eyes then seemed to had grown ten times their natural size: "I-I, um, well, Mister Holmes," he stammered, but Sherlock quickly shot up his hand to silence him.

"You have not mentioned once the incident of William Carson clocking into work the day following his death, nor raise any doubts about my very presence here today." he began, "I know you don't actually work for this shipyard. I know your really just a very skilled con man who was set up, along with the rest of these gentlemen hanging about outside, to limit my view on the gravity of this whole case. Please, if you can, before Scotland Yard picks you up and arrests you, pass this message on to Moriarty: You can't fool me. My mind is not as weak as the common man's. I am not weak."

'_Stupid thing to say,'_ Sherlock now thought as he hobbled his way behind Molly, _'Stupid, stupid thing to say.'_

"Two hundred and seven. Two hundred and seven," Molly kept repeating as she looked down at the ticket scrunched in her hand, "Two hundred and seven-Huh, you think they'd make finding rooms a bit easier on this ship."

"You're doing f-fine," Sherlock said, gulping down the small amount of bile building up in his throat, "Just keep looking."

Picking up on the odd tone to his voice, Molly stopped and turned around; "Are you alright?" she asked, "You seem...distracted."

"Hmm? Yes, Yes, I'm alright." he replied, lying right through his teeth, "Don't worry about me. Keep looking."

"Are you looking for clues or something?"

"Well, if...if I was I can't very well say that aloud now can I? It could-"

"Hinder the investigation, I know. Sorry I brought it up." Molly then turned forward again and started up her search for the room once more. Clearing his throat, Sherlock followed but with every passing moment, he could feel his body becoming weaker and weaker.

'_You need to stop. You need to rest.'_

"Stop talking about it." he whispered to himself, "Leave me be."

"Who are you talking to?" Molly asked, stopping again, "You're breathing heavily. If you need me to take your bag, I can."

"You have enough, I'm fine!" he quickly replied, "Please just-"

"Alright, I'm sorry. I didn't meant to upset you," Molly said, continuing to walk. "Look, here we are. Room two hundred and seven."

"Good," Sherlock breathed out, trying to hide his genuine relief on finding the room.

Their room was much more lavish then either of them expected. They walked into the large front room that was adored with various painting along the dark wood walls. A mosaic chandelier hung from above, giving light to the entire cabin as well as an air of old fashion class. A cream colored sofa stretched out from the center of the room, artistic cluttered with pillows. It took up most of the space, but there was still plenty of room to walk around. A glass coffee table was set in front the couch just parallel to an electric fireplace. To the left of that was a kitchenette area an to the right was the entrance toward the bedroom, no doubt equally as lavish.

"My word," exclaimed Molly in a breathy tone as she scurried inside, "this place certainly is something. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Mhm," was all Sherlock could grunt in reply, dropping his bag to the floor with a thud. He tried to make his way to the bedroom but it seemed so far away.

"I mean, look at everything! So new and fresh," she went on, "It's like something out of a 1920s period drama. Silly thing to say, I know, but even you can't deny the similarities."

"Mhm, yes, yes." he groaned, leaning against the kitchenette bar for support.

'_Vision blurring. Sweat pouring down your face. Keep moving. Move.'_

"Oh and look at this!" Molly went on, dropping the bags on the couch and quickly heading to examine the balcony, "What a view! I'm sure once we set sail this will be absolutely gorgeous at night. Oh and look, champagne! This is certainly too high class for me. Honestly, Sherlock, if Moriarty is trying to put us in danger-"

"Molly, please, I need you to stop!" he interrupted, rubbing his temples, "Just stop talking an-and keep...keep out there and I'll-I'll be right out to join you. Or...something."

Surprised by his tone, Molly quickly turned around and looked at Sherlock with a furrowed brow. It was then she saw just how weak he was: the loss of color in his cheeks, the sweat pouring down his face, the lack of focus in his eyes. Pushing all of her excitement aside, Molly ran back into the room and straight to Sherlock's side just as he was about to topple to the floor.

"Whoa, whoa, okay, I've got you." she said, catching the man in her arms. Much to her surprise, Sherlock pushed her away and leaned back against the wall.

"I-I don't need your help," he snapped in a breathy voice, lazily swinging his arm about to find something-anything really-to hang to, "N-no need to worry."

"Sherlock, look at me," Molly went on, ignoring his act of defiance.

She took a step closer to him, but Sherlock countered and took a wobbly step back; "Le-leave me be." he stammered, trying to come off as defensive.

"No, I won't," she replied, cupping his face in her hands, "Look at me." She looked into his eyes, already starting to fade with fever, and took in his fragile appearance. She frankly was having trouble recognizing the man in front of her and that, above all, frightened her.

"Sherlock, you've got to lay down." she said, "Why didn't you sleep in the car ride over? You look simply exhausted."

"'m fine," he slurred out in reply, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "I just...need a moment to collect my-myself."

"What you need is to stop and rest," Molly said, "Now, come on. Lets get you to bed."

"I can't...can't do that," Sherlock breathed out, "I have to...I have to work."  
"Your fever is picking up, you can't focus and you can barely stand up." she went on, "I knew something was off when we left Baker street this morning. We should have-"

"Should have what?" he breathed out, glaring at her through half-opened eyes, "Stayed at-at home? No, Molly, I have...have to keep moving."

"Sherlock, we just got here." Molly protested, reaching out for him again, "Let's just lie low for a bit, like you said in the car. Take time to find our footing here and what have you. We've been on this ship for a total of ten minutes and haven't seen anything out of the ordinary yet, no indication that Moriarty is even here. You can take the time to get your strength up to par."

"Damn it, Molly, don't you see? He wouldn't make it that obvious!" Sherlock suddenly barked at her, "We have to search for c-clues, figure out why this...this boat, why did he invite me here, and what the bloody hell all of this means!? I-I can't stop!I...I have to...to..."

Suddenly, the entire room began to blur in front of him. Colors seemed to blend into a spiral of darkness. A sharp pain began to run a shiver through his body and he thought he was going to be sick right then and there. Sherlock quickly closed his eyes and swallowed the small bit of bile climbing up his throat, but it quickly came back up. As quick as his ailing body would allow, Sherlock threw himself toward the kitchenette sink, gripping the sides for balance, then threw up

Holding back tears, Molly quickly went to his side. She stood behind him and placed both of her hands on his back. As she rubbed soft comforting circles into his shoulders, Molly was suddenly regretting allowing Sherlock to take this case on. That doubt John had first expressed had never left her mind, she just didn't want to accept it. Sherlock could solve this, push through and finish off Moriarty once and for all. But now, here he was: vomiting into a sink and convulsing with fever. What was she to do, let him continue to work?

Yes, she had to.

She promised him she'd help him and that was what she intended to do.

As Sherlock's heaving seemed to becoming to a halt, he reached a shaking hand up and took hold of one of Molly's hands; "I'm...I'm s-sorry," he whispered,

"Don't be," Molly replied, helping him stand back up. He leaned back against her body for support, unable to keep himself upright on his own. Molly then used her free hand and turned the sink on. As the water ran, Molly then guided Sherlock over to the coach and sat him down. "Now, I'm going to clean that up while you sleep," she said, helping him out of his coat then gently pushing Sherlock to lay down on his side, "Will you promise me you'll actually sleep? I need you to solve this case when your awake."

"Mmm," Sherlock moaned, closing his eyes.

After a few moments, when Molly was sure Sherlock hand finally fallen asleep, there came an unexpected knock at the door. Molly briefly panicked, dreading whoever might be on the other side of their cabin door. Quickly thinking of a plan, Molly tucked Sherlock's coat around him then headed for the door.

"One moment," she called out as another knock came. Taking a deep breath, Molly opened the door just a sliver and poked her head out to view the visitor.

It was a crew member, the one she instantly recognized from the front desk in fact, holding a sealed letter out to her. He was a young red headed lad, dressed in a well tailored, pin-stripped suit with a pearly white smile that rivaled that of a barracuda's. He may have been sweet and helpful upon checking them in, but Molly and Sherlock instantly knew something was off about him.

"Can-can I help you?" she asked this man, trying to hide her suspicion in her voice.

"Delivery, Ms. Holmes," he cheerily responded, holding the envelope out to her just a tad further, "I seemed to have forgotten to hand this to you when you checked in."

"Oh, um, thank you," Molly said, cautiously taking the envelope, "and, please, as I told you at the desk, I am not Ms. Holmes."

"Apologizes, ma'am," he said with an all too bright chuckle, "We are instructed to address guests by their surnames."

"All 5 other guests, yes of course," Molly said, "Well, my surname isn't Holmes. It's Hooper."

"So sorry to have offended you, ma'am."

"You didn't. It's just-Never mind, thank you for this." As she started to close the door, Molly noticed the young man peeking inside the cabin and catching a glimpse of Sherlock's limp form on the couch. "Will that be all?" she asked, using a very defensive tone.

"Oh, yes, ma'am," the man said, flashing her that smile again, "Enjoy your cruise. I'm sure we will meet again." And with that, he walk off in a hurry.

Molly quickly closed the door then turned back to the sickly detective, setting the letter aside for the moment. Allowing her medical instincts take over, Molly returned to Sherlock's side and knelt down beside the couch. She placed one hand on his forehead, taking note of how warm his skin felt to her touch. With her free hand, Molly gently shook Sherlock awake. She needed to get him to a proper bed; he would rest easier in the bedroom, surely.

"Sherlock, come on." she said, helping him stand, "Your going to bed."

"Mm in bed," he grumbled, pulling his coat around his body tighter, "Whose...the door?"

"Not important right now," Molly replied, "Listen, I need you to get some proper sleep. I'll unpack and get everything set up for you to work once your up and feeling better."

"I'm not an invalid," he mumbled, "Please, leave me...alone."

"I can't do that and you know it." she said, "Now, come on. Can you get up for me?"

With a groan, Sherlock opened his eyes and met Molly's gaze. His mood instantly changed as he reached out and took her hand into his; "You're beautiful," he sighed.

"I'll take the feverish compliment." Molly chuckled, helping him to to stand, "but you're still going to bed."

Groaning, Sherlock brought himself upright, leaning on Molly for extra support. Reluctantly, Sherlock allowed himself to be guided into the bedroom. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't grateful for finally finding a place to lay down. What was making him so defiant, though, was his ever present pride. Molly shouldn't be seeing him like this; he needed to be strong so he could solve this case. She needed to know he was still Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, not the sickly individual barely standing before her.

As they walked through the doorway to the bedroom, Sherlock's eyes darted about, taking in the extravagant surroundings. It was very much the same as the main room; very posh, very old fashioned, extremely high class. A large bed was the center piece of the room. Two wooden nightstands stood on either side of the bed and a great bit wooden dresser was at the foot. A bathroom was connected to the left and there was an entrance to the balcony to the right.

Parallel to the bed and across from where Sherlock and Molly were standing hung a large mirror, just above the dresser. Sherlock caught his reflection out of his blurry vision and he frankly couldn't recognize the man looking back at him. That was a small man, pale with touches of gray on his cheeks, nothing at all like the consulting detective he was supposed to be. Fragile and unfocused; hardly the image of a genius.

"Damn it," Sherlock breathed out, "Damn it all."

"None of that, alright?" Molly said, guiding him to the bed, "Come on."

With Molly's guidance, Sherlock collapsed onto the soft bed, burrowing his head into the assortment of pillows, blocking out the world around him. What had happened? The day was going so well. He was working again, genuinely working. Why had this illness have to rear it's ugly head? Why had it have to resurface at this moment?

"Fine," Sherlock breathed out, taking deep and even breaths, "I'm...fine."

"Of course you are," Molly said, kissing his mop of curls, "I'll be in to check on you in a bit." She then closed the curtains and turned off the lights, making the room nice and dark. Before she exited, Molly came back over to Sherlock's bedside and wrapped her arms around him; "I love you." she said, kissing his shoulder.

"I'm not dead yet. Stop with the-the sentiment," he replied, but then took Molly's hand into his own; "I love you too," he breathed out, kissing her knuckles.

Molly chuckled then finally exited the room. Sherlock didn't fall back asleep just yet, though. He laid there in deep thought, taking full advantage of this moment of lucidness before his fever would hit back. His mind was buzzing with the case and how desperately he wanted to get started on working. He was here, right where Moriarty had lead him to, and yet he was lying sick in bed. This wasn't supposed to be happening. This wasn't supposed to be going this way.

Slowly, Sherlock then dug his hand deep into his right trouser pocket and fiddled around with the orange medicine bottle that presided inside it. His medication to help him get through the day; his new addition to his daily routine. He was supposed to take the pills twice day: two when he woke up, then two before he went to sleep. Sherlock had already taken his morning dose, but what harm could just a couple more pills do? He was on the brink of sleep anyway, why not just take them now? The thought coursed through his mind as he pulled the bottle out to examine it.

Rolling onto his back, Sherlock groaned and stared up at the ceiling. What he wouldn't give to dissolve the pain and discomfort running through his body right now. How could he work, carry on his reputations that he so hard to maintain? These pills could put him out of that misery far a short time. They would allow him to simply slip away into a state of absolute stillness and peace. He had been down this road before; different drugs then, different time. The mentality was the still the same though: Escape from the here and now.

There was a dark underlining thought to that sentiment, one that he was all too aware of. It was that same thought that ran full speed around his mind every time these symptoms hit his body at full force. To end it all, put a halt to the pain and the distraction it caused to his work. Of course, an ultimate end to the pain meant an ultimate end of the work as well. Was there a plus to that? No, of course not. There would be no plus side other than the elimination of the suffering. So would it really be worth it?

There was always one distracting fact that would come to his mind's forefront when he thought of this. It was a welcoming distraction, one that could always bring him to the light; it was Molly or rather a potential future with Molly. He had thought about it many times; a now and forevermore with Molly Hooper was not something he was opposed to. If he gave up though, simply stopped fighting, any form of a future with Molly would be gone. Was that really worth giving up, even if he wasn't sure what it was yet?

"'_To sleep, perchance to dream-aye there's the rub.'_" he sighed, shaking a couple of pills into his palm. He then took one of the pills into his other hand and held it up the ceiling; '_Should I block everything out for good? Get rid of the pain and at the same time toss everything I've fought for aside'_ he thought to himself, twirling the pill around in his fingers, _'Is this a chance for escape or your fever running you mad, Sherlock Holmes? You don't want to end this forever...but at the same time you do.'_

Sherlock could hear Molly just outside the door, talking on the phone with John, updating him on his condition. What would she say about his morbid thoughts? He had let the idea slip while in a feverish state, telling her that he simply "couldn't do _this_ any more". It hurt her, of course it did, which is why he didn't want to consciously tell her his morbid thoughts. It definitely was the fever talking that night; whether it was the truth or not, Sherlock still wasn't complete sure.

As his vision began to blur once more, Sherlock brought the pill to his lips and popped it into his mouth; "Just end this...for a short time." he sighed, popping in the other pill and swallowing, "Let the larger issue be...for now." He let out a heavy sigh, draping an arm over his churning stomach while letting the other hang off the side of the bed, limply. He then shut his eyes and allowed some form of relief to overcome him.

Time came to halt.

Every thing became quiet and still.

The pain, temporarily, was gone.

_**It's been sometime, hasn't it? I do apologize; this took much longer than I intended because it wasn't coming out just how I wanted. Few things to note: no, I know nothing about small cruise ships. I'm just going off of elementary research. Yes, the case is getting started. For this chapter though, I wanted to establish Sherlock's mindset a bit before I delve into the case. It's getting dark as I'm sure you noticed. Just adding another wrench to the story. I will be introducing the other passengers as they too will be key players to the case.**_

_**Please let me know what you thought of this chapter; means the world to me, truly. I love hearing from you all and your support is very, very humbling. It keeps me writing, I assure you.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_**Samwise221b**_

_**Side note: I will be vacationing in London in a month and I plan on updating a few more chapters before I leave. I won't be able to write when I'm over there due to all the things we're doing, one of which is seeing Hamlet. :) It'll be a long break of sorts, but I will be back.**_


	16. Ch15: I Always Said I Don't Need Anyone

_**Chapter 15: **__**I always said I don't need anyon**__**e**_

"Okay, so, this picture would go in the center, right? Right. Then this one...huh? The picture of the note. Why do we have a picture of the note when we have the-Forget it. I'll move on. Okay, now, field notes. Do we have field notes? I jotted a few down but they're short hand and he didn't even notice me taking them so-Oh! Here we go! This is his hand writing so these must be his notes. _'Carson murdered. C.O.D=broken neck.' _Yes, okay. That's...relevant, obviously so- Oh bloody Hell, this is ridiculous."

Molly let out an aggravated moan as she ran her fingers through her flowing hair. She was sitting on the floor in the middle of the sitting room with a clutter of papers strewn about her. She was trying-honestly trying- to recreate the evidence collage Sherlock had back at 221b. They had packed everything that he had tacked up on the wall with them, so naturally Molly thought it would be easy to piece back together. Apparently there was a method to Sherlock's work-madness because the task was proving to be much, much harder than she had anticipated. None of these notes matched what she thought she knew, nor could she even begin to place them in order. It was cluster of confusion to put it plainly; too much information to make sense of all at once.

"What have you gotten yourself into, Molly Hooper?" she asked herself, placing her hands on her hips, "How could you have possibly though you could figure this all out on your own?" With a sigh, Molly shook her head in dismay then looked up at the clock above the mantel piece. "Ten past six," she muttered, turning back to the papers, "You've been at this for far too long, I think."

She then turned her gaze to the bedroom door and her heart sank slightly. Sherlock had yet to waken, which, in all honesty, wasn't a bad thing. Molly knew he needed the sleep if he wanted to work to his full vigor. That didn't ease the worry in her mind, though; she had yet to shake that look on his face before he had become ill in the kitchenette sink. He was so ill that it hurt her to think about it. Was that selfish? Maybe, but what else was she to think. This was the man she loved and he was slipping away from her. All she could do was watch.

Deciding to take a small break from trying to make sense of the papers before her, Molly got to her feet and walked to the bedroom door. She then very slowly opened it and went inside, being as careful as possible not make any unnecessary noise. Once inside, there came a small sound, almost like a sound of pain coming from the bed. Molly turned her gaze to the still figure atop the sheets. He was moaning in his sleep, his normally still expression distorted in discomfort. _A nightmare, perhaps.' _Molly thought as she moved closer to the bed. She sat down beside him and gently ran her fingers through his hair, just like she always did to comfort him.

Sherlock was laying down with one arm stretched out across the bed and the other resting atop his stomach._'_His curls were a mess, sticking out all different directions, and his normally pressed white button-up was untucked and wrinkled (Molly had removed his jacket after checking up on him about an hour ago). Some, but very little, amount of color had returned to his cheeks and he no longer looked like he was a ghost. To Molly, he looked like a child, so innocent and, frankly, adorable. She'd never say that to him, but it was always on her mind.

Breaking her out of her thoughts, Molly felt a shift in the mattress as the hand on Sherlock's stomach began to intertwine with her own. Molly then pressed a gentle kiss against Sherlock's temple as he began to stir. She laid down beside him as a soft smile began to grow across his lips; "Are you awake?" she cooed, nuzzling her forehead into his sweat drenched curls.

"I am now," Sherlock breathed out in reply as he turned his head so that their foreheads were touching. His eyes flickered open and Molly's breath hitched at how beautiful his clear gaze was; so very different then it was hours ago.

"Well, hello," she said, a deep blush upon on her cheeks, "I've missed you. How was your rest?"

"Fine. I woke up a few minutes ago," he said, opening her eyes fully, "I just didn't want to get...up." They both chuckled at his small blunder of words then shared a soft kiss on the lips.

"Your being unusually sweet for having just breaking a fever," Molly said, stroking his cheek, "Dare I ask, how are you feeling?"

"Fever's gone, as you noted, as well as the dizziness." Sherlock replied, "It was just a moment; the sickness just reminding me that it's still there. I just needed a few moments to get my strength back."

"A few moments," she giggled, "Sherlock, you've been out cold for a good 4 hours."

With a furrowed brow, Sherlock raised his head slightly to view the clock atop the dresser. His attention was then focused toward the entry to the balcony and the clear view of the darkening sky; "We're moving and the sun is down," he went on, "When did that start?"

"Well, as far as the sun going down, it goes down at the same everyday during this time of year," Molly replied, taking his hand into her own again, "As for the boat, we got underway shortly after you fell asleep."

"Has anyone come by the room?" he asked, propping himself up on his elbows and becoming much more alert, "Anyone odd or peculiar? Moriarty must have agents on board."

"I agree," Molly said, sitting up, "There was that guy from the check-in desk; he stopped by to give me this envelope."

"What was in it?"

"Oh! I completely forgot about it. It's still on the counter by the door."

Sherlock let out a groan and rubbed a hand over his face, clearly agitated by Molly's answer. "God, I should be working not sleeping in." he moaned, setting his feet on the ground, "I need a bath." He then rose to his feet and stumbled about, trying to get his footing right. "Molly, get all of my notes in order." he continued to order as he headed toward the bathroom door, "I'll just be a moment more and then we need to get started. I've wasted too much time already just lying here. And open that envelope; that must be something of importance."

"You haven't been wasting time," she replied, "And I have your notes out. They are organized in the sitting room."

Sherlock suddenly stopped and looked directly at her: "You organized my notes?" he asked with a smirk, "I'm impressed."

Molly blushed as she looked down at her lap: "Well, when I say organized I mean-Well, I put them in some kind of an order."

Sherlock's smile quickly faded as he turned away again; "They are a mess aren't they?"

"Define mess."

"Did you or did you not strew my work about across the floor as if the answer would just appear out of the blue to you?"

"...Yes?"

"Oh God, Molly, I need to work," Sherlock then ran his hands through his hair and flung open the bathroom door to get ready for a bath.

"And there he is," Molly sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed, "Welcome back, Sherlock Holmes. You were missed."

Sherlock gave her a confused look as he stopped in his tracks: "I didn't go anywhere," he plainly stated, "Did I?"

"Just come lay down," Molly giggled, reaching out and taking his hands into hers again. Surprisingly, Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled back toward the bed and into Molly's arms. She then situated them back to their original position of laying beside each other. "You need to slow down," she continued, "Already that little bit of color is drained from your cheeks."

"Molly, I just woke up," Sherlock groaned, rubbing his face in his hands, "I'm not mentally prepared for the _'Sherlock take it easy because your sick speech.' _It's annoying."

"Oh, well, I apologize for caring for your health," Molly rebutted, "but, along with that, I also want you to solve this case. For you to do just that, you need to be on top of your game. Sherlock, please, take care of yourself. That is all I ask."

"I know, I know," Sherlock sighed, "I-I appreciate you caring. I appreciate your input. I appreciate you taking the time to...to help me. And, as far as the notes go, I am grateful that you took the initiative and tried to organize them. Well, when I say organized-No, no, I'll stop there. Just...Thank you."

Confused by his words, Molly shook her head slightly in disbelief and looked at him in utter confusion; "Your welcome?" she said with trepidation.

"What? What did I say that was wrong?" he asked, "Well, I say a lot of things that are wrong but, honestly, I don't know what it was this time."

"You didn't say anything wrong," Molly said with a chuckle, "You complimented me."

"I tend to do that," he replied with a half mouth smirk, "You are my girlfriend."

"And now your calling me your girlfriend." she said, her eyes suddenly becoming wide;"Sherlock, are you sure your fever isn't down?"

As she started to touch his forehead, Sherlock quickly reached up and grabbed her wrist. Their eyes met and, suddenly, Molly's doubts and worries began to melt away. She couldn't take her eyes off of him; she was, for lack of a better phrase, spell-bound by his gaze. Molly allowed her eyes to flicker closed as Sherlock gently placed his hands on either side of of her face. Without a second thought, their lips collided in a deep, passionate kiss.

For countless minutes, they let their kisses grow and grow. Both pairs of eyes were closed. Both pairs of hands blindly maneuvering over clothing, trying to set them aside. They were soon sprawled over the bed; legs intertwined, fingers tangled thick through each others hair. Suddenly, all things related to a case are forgotten. An illness, slowly growing within the man's blood, is pushed to the back of minds. After what seemed like ages, they broke apart.

"Well," Molly breathed out, nuzzling her forehead against his, "that was unexpected."

"Hmm, was it?" Sherlock sighed, cupping a hand behind her head, "I thought I was acting on my duty as your significant other."

"Didn't you just finish telling me how you have to get to work?"

"I just finished kissing you. That's what I just finished."

"What is this? Your mood swings are always a bit frighting."

"Molly, please," Sherlock chuckled, kissing her cheek, "Why must you always think my kindness toward you is a sign of something bad?"

"Because, Sherlock Holmes, you are not a kind person." she replied, poking his chest, "Need I remind you of a woman named Janine."

"Oh God, what has _that _got to do with anything?" he groaned, rolling his eyes in disgust, "We were having quite a good time just now. Why did you have to bring that up?" Very much so in the manner of a pouting toddler, Sherlock laid back down and stared up at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact with Molly to the best of his ability.

"Come on, Sherlock," Molly said, cuddling closer to him, "What I was trying to say is that when it comes to romance, well...Your track record isn't the best."

"I never said it was and, for the record, what emotions I pretended to have for Janine were nothing, nor anything close, to what I actually feel for you." Sherlock then finally returned his gaze to her. He then wrapped his arms around her and gently pulled her as close to his body as possible.

"I have never missed lead you as I did to Janine," he continued, "When I kiss you, Molly Hooper, it is with as much honest affection as I can muster. When I tell you that I love you, know that I mean it with all of my heart. These moments of sentiment are not part of my usual nature; they are solely for you. That is perhaps why you find them so obscure and very unlike me. I've never really been able to show this type of emotion to anyone before. You do realize that, yes?"

Molly nodded as she rested her hand over his fast beating heart; "I do," she said, "and I also realize how lucky I am that you trust me enough to show those emotions."

"No, it's more than trust. It's love."

"The very thing you once called a chemical defect."  
"Hmm, a bitter thought that I expressed far too much."

Feeling the need to not say anything more, Molly placed a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. "Come on," she said, sitting up, "shall we work, detective?"

"Sadly, we shall," Sherlock replied, taking her hand into his, "let us work to solve this tedious crime."

"I've never heard you call a crime tedious."

"I've never worked a crime like this."

Helping him to rise to his feet, Molly took Sherlock by the hand and lead him out into the sitting room. As soon as they stepped out, Sherlock Holmes became the consulting detective the world knew so well. He kept his hand in hers but his focus was solely on the case. In the sitting room, his gaze went straight to the notes on the floor. It was then he let go of Molly's hand and began to circle the papers, like a hawk circling its prey. Molly sat back on the couch and just watched him work; the master in his element, a sight that was really something to see.

"Where's that envelope?," Sherlock asked, leaning down to pick up a particular piece of paper, "The one the gentleman from the front desk gave you."

"Oh, um, I left it by the door," she said, going to fetch it, "To be honest, I was more concerned about getting you to bed then reading it." She then chewed on her lower lip a bit in nervousness before telling Sherlock the next bit of the conversation: "He called me Ms. Holmes."

"Who did?" he asked, keeping his attention to the papers in front of him, not really taking in what Molly was saying.

"The man from the front desk, the one who delivered the envelope. He called me Ms. Holmes."

"Oh. What for?"

"I-I don't really know. Slip of the tongue, I guess."

"Doubt it. He's one of Moriarty's men thus he knows about us."

Molly suddenly stopped on her way back to Sherlock; "What?"

"Molly, it shouldn't come as a surprise to hear that Moriarty could know about you and I." Sherlock explained with a sigh, "I'm positive he does, in fact. Why else would he put your name down as my plus one for this ship? True, he could have put John's name down, but no. Whatever he has planned for me this time, he wants it to be personal."

A twinge of fear ran through Molly's body as the thought of Moriarty knowing about such personal information. Sherlock was right of course; Moriarty wants to make a personal attack and what better way then to involve her. The one that mattered. The one that saved him all those years ago.

"Molly," Sherlock said, breaking her out of her thoughts, "the envelope."

"Oh, um, yeah. Sorry," she stammered, walking over and handing it to him. Sherlock took the paper into his hands and quickly tore it open, his brow furrowed in deep concentration the whole time. The letter he pulled out was a simple postcard, an invitation to be more exact. The was only three sentences typed on the card stock in a plain, black text:

_Dinner is served at 7_

_Your attendance would be gratefully appreciated_

_Deck C dinning room._

"Vague," Sherlock mumbled, checking the back of the card, "I would go so far and call it cryptic but I think that's giving Moriarty too much credit."

"What do you think it means?" Molly asked, setting a hand on his arm, "Are you sure Moriarty sent it?"

"Molly, honestly, who else would it be?" Sherlock scoffed, "As for what it means, it's a very straight forward message: we are invited to dinner at 7 in the Deck C dinning room. Now, whether it will just be the three of us or the other passengers-"

"Three? You mean-"  
"Yes, Molly, Moriarty is on board."

Suddenly, Molly felt very warm as a surge of nerves rocketed through her. Deep down she knew that Moriarty would make an appearance on this trip, but she wasn't mentally prepared to face him. What was she to do? What was she to say if he confronted her? Too many thoughts jumbled around in her mind and already a headache was starting to grow, putting pressure on her temples.

"Molly," Sherlock's voice broke through her thoughts. She came back to reality just as he wrapped an arm around her middle in an unexpected (but welcomed) embrace; "You don't need to be afraid," he whispered before placing a soft kiss on her cheek, "We're prepared for this."

"Are we?" she asked, "I mean, I'm not doubting you or anything, but how can you be so sure you have the one up on Moriarty?"

"You haven't lost faith in me, have you Molly?" Sherlock teased, pulling her closer to him, "I may be ill, but I haven't lost my mind. Not yet, at least."

A small smile grew across Molly's lips, but his words secretly made her heart hurt a bit. She knew he meant well by those words, but the idea of Sherlock loosing his mind gave her a chill. It wouldn't come to that. She wouldn't allow it.

Sherlock took note of her distress then turned his body all the way so that they were facing one another; "Listen to me, Molly. Listen to me very carefully." he said, cupping her face in hands, "I'm going to solve this and then take you home where...where I'll do whatever you tell me to do so my health can climb back to a more stable place."

"Sherlock," Molly sighed, but Sherlock kept speaking before she could continue her thought.

"Right now, I need you to trust me to solve this and end this affair for good. Push aside this illness; I have to do that so that I can work. Work with me, Molly, and I promise you this will end much faster." Sherlock then turned his gaze toward the papers on the floor: "Look at what we have here, Molly. Every piece of this complicated puzzle can help us better where to go next. This was just the beginning of Moriarty's new play. The murder of William Carson was the kick start for the real story at hand; the show has yet to really begin, Molly, that's for certain. I have yet to determine if we are in the first act or beginning the second, but I promise you I'll end it before he gets the chance to."

"I know," Molly sighed, placing a hand atop his, "I'll help you work. I'll be by your side, no matter what. But I promised to take care of you. I'm not going back on that."

"I wouldn't expect you to. Just don't loose faith in me."

"I could never."

"Then that's all I need." he whispered just before kissing her softly. When they pulled apart, Sherlock nuzzled his forehead against hers and sighed: "I meant what I said in the bedroom, Molly. What I have for you-what I genuinely feel for you- is more than just trust. I love you."

"I love you too," she replied, stealing another kiss. When they broke away again. Sherlock stepped away a bit and headed back toward the bedroom. "Your not going back to bed, are you?" Molly asked, smiling at him as her cheeks flushed a subtle pink.

"No, " he chuckled, opening the door, "I need a bath and to change. We have a dinner to get to. Keep studying those papers. You can never be too sure that you've covered everything. Something is always hidden in plain sight."

"Alright, but don't take too long." she replied, "I need to change too."

"Of course. Oh, and Molly?"

"Yes?"

"I truly wouldn't mind it i there continues to be more slips of the tongue from others on board. I quite like the sound of you being called Ms. Holmes."

_Hope you all enjoyed that! I have the next chapter planed out, just need to go through some editing and formatting. My hope *crosses fingers* is to get that up tomorrow. Two chapters a week would be the least I could do for you guys sticking around. Thank you for the continued support and responses. To those I PM'd, I hope you got my responses. I really do enjoy hearing from you guys; it helps the writing process a ton and it brings me joy. I can't say thank you enough. See you in the next chapter_

_Much love and many thanks,_

_Samwise221b_


	17. Chapter 16: Everything That You've Built

_**Chapter 16: Everything That You've Built**_

"_Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?__"_

"_Richard Brook.__"_

"_Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do.__"_

"_Of course.__"_

"_Attaboy.__"_

"_Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach__: __the case that made my name.__"_

"_Just trying to have some fun.__"_

Sherlock adjusted his back jacket over his thin frame as the dark, sharp tone of Moriarty's voice echoed through his mind. That was the last time they saw each other, the last time they spoke face to face. Now, in a just a few minutes, they could be meeting again. There really wasn't a doubt in Sherlock's mind that Moriarty would be at this dinner. What was going to transpire? Was there to be a confrontation or just a nonchalant passing by? Sherlock played out every possible scenario in his head, but all that came back to him was that day all those years ago.

On the rooftop of Saint Bartholomew hospital was where the two men seemed to come to an end of their hectic game of cat and mouse. One could have called it a final showdown, but Sherlock wouldn't have given that day such a flashy name. It was an inevitable meeting, a means to an end, nothing more. Sherlock could still feel the wind on his face, the over-looming tension around the entire scene, but, most of all, he could still hear the excitement in Moriarty's voice at the idea of him jumping to his death.

"_...__you always want everything to be clever. Now, shall we finish the game?__One final act. Glad you chose a tall building__, __nice way to do it.__"_

"_Do it? D__o-__do what?__...__Yes, of course__.__ My suicide.__"_

"'_Genius detective proved to be a fraud.__'__ I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy-tales.__..__And pretty Grimm ones too.__"_

Bile began to rise up in Sherlock's throat, but the consulting detective quickly covered her mouth and swallowed it back down before he could throw it up in the bathroom sink. Was it that memory that triggered it or just the illness again? Even Sherlock couldn't know. He raised his head up and looked back at the pale reflection in the mirror. That place, that whole scene, continued to send chills up his normally emotionless, unaffected spine. Yes, he and his brother had everything under control from afar, but Moriarty always had a way of making Sherlock show his cards.

"_Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive__: __Your friends will die if you don't.__"_

"_John.__"_

"_Not just John__. __Everyone.__"_

"_Mrs Hudson.__"_

"_Everyone.__"_

"_Lestrade.__"_

"_Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There's no stopping them now.__Unless my people see you jump.__"_

Fear. Genuine fear made his blood run cold when Moriarty listed off those names. Three of the most important lives in his world hung in balance while he had to decide to jump or not. That was the only moment on that infamous rooftop when Sherlock doubted how in control of the situation Mycroft really was. One misjudgment could have meant the death of any or all three of them. True, there was one comforting-for lack of better word- thought in that moment; Molly's name wasn't said.

"_Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me__, __was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible.__"_

The dark memory of the rooftop began to fade away as Sherlock's mind fast forward two years to the memory of that afternoon with Molly. He wore his heart on his sleeve in that whole day. He knew the risk of sharing his true feelings with her the moment he picked up his phone and asked her to come to Baker Street. Yes, she was engaged and yes that sent a piercing arrow to his heart, but Sherlock never let the pain show. What he said, though, that was his confession; That was how Sherlock Holmes said 'I love you, Molly Hooper.'

A plain smile grew across Sherlock's lips as he thought about her more; the way she talked, the way she moved about a room, the way she supported him when he himself couldn't. And yet...he was putting her right in the line of fire. If his assumption was correct-and it nearly always was-Molly would be exposed to Moriarty and he would instantly see her for who she really was: Sherlock's heart, the very thing he swore to burn. He would harm her, kill her even if he got the chance. There was nothing that man wouldn't do to bring pain, either physical or internal, to Sherlock. Molly would be the perfect ammunition.

Sherlock's smile began to fade. How did he even think that bringing her along, even though she insisted, would be the right thing to do? She knew what she was signing up for, though. From the very moment she agreed to be in a relationship with him, Molly Hooper knew the consequences of being Sherlock Holmes' other half. As far as coming along on this case, Sherlock knew that her true intentions was to keep him healthy. She was right to do so, of course. He should rest for a time, put the case aside for a few moments so that when he did feel better he could solve it in a hurry.

But then the pain would come back, it always would.

When would it end? How could it end?

Even Molly couldn't change that for him.

There was only that inevitable end.

"Are you alright?" came the soft voice of his pathologist from behind, causing Sherlock to snap out of his thoughts and return to the present. With a clearing of his throat, he spun around on his heels so to face Molly properly.

"Yes. Why wouldn't I be?" he answered, giving her a side mouth smirk.

Molly leaned on the bathroom door frame a bit and chewed nervously on her bottom lip; "Well, you are still a little shaky and pale." she said, looking down at her hands, "If you want to go back in the bedroom and lay down for a bit, I won't judge you."

"Molly, I'm fine." Sherlock replied, taking her hands into his. He then took the few steps forward to fill the gap between them and set his hands on her shoulders, revealed underneath her blue cocktail dress; "Are you alright?" he asked, "I don't think I've asked you that once during this whole endeavor."

"It's alright," she chuckled, "I mean, I'm alright. It is also alright that you haven't asked me about this case too. You've got a lot going on in your mind right now; my feelings shouldn't-"

Before she could finish her thought, Sherlock placed a firm kiss on Molly's lips. She quickly gave in to the romantic gesture and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. When they parted, the couple nuzzled their foreheads together and just took in the tranquility of the moment.

"Nervous?" she whispered, stealing another peck on his lips.

"Would you think less of me if I said yes?" he replied. He then cupped her face in his hands and gently rubbed his thumbs over her cheeks; "I'm nervous because I...I don't want any harm to come to you." he admitted, "Moriarty wouldn't make the same mistake twice."

"No, no I wouldn't expect him to," Molly sighed, "but...I'm not afraid."

"No?"

"No. I trust you. I love you. That's all I need."

"Moll-"

"No more words, Sherlock. Let's just...get this over with."

With an affirmative nod, Sherlock placed a kiss on Molly's forehead then took her by the hand. He give her hand one quick squeeze then lead her out of the room to this elusive dinner.

0o0o0o0

"This isn't at all discomforting," Molly whispered as she and Sherlock walked into the dinning room, arm and arm.

"He always had a flare for the dramatic," Sherlock replied, gently patting her hand, "It's alright. I've got you."

"I know," Molly sighed, "I know."

The couple strode further into the room, neither making eye contact with any of the few other attendees of this illusive dinner.

A melodious sound of a harp filled the air, one could say it gave the eerie feeling presiding the room a lighter tone. The room itself was simply decorated, not at all as decorated as their state room. The walls were a rich maroon and the hardwood floor was a dark brown. A long dinning table that was set up in the middle of the room with a buffet table containing a vast assortment of foods was to the right and simple bar was to the left. A crew member was stationed at each of the room's four corners, standing stoic as if they were statues.

Other than the guards, the passengers were in attendance as well. A woman in her mid-thirties dressed in a sharp black dress stood closely beside a man of the same age, dressed in a matching suit, next to the furthest head of the dinning table, chatting quietly to themselves. Beside the bar, but with no drink in his hand, stood a bearded man who seemed to be taking in every detail of the room. His and Sherlock's gazes met for an unexpected moment; he simply nodded to the detective, as if he recognized him. Un-phased, Sherlock nodded back.

"Do you know him?" Molly asked, pulling gently on Sherlock's elbow.

"No," Sherlock replied, keeping his eyes on the man, "but it appears he knows me."

"A fan?" Molly quipped.

Sherlock quickly furrowed his brow in confusion and turned his attention toward Molly: "What?"

"Could he be a fan, a reader of John's blog? Contrary to your beliefs, people do read it."

"I am aware of that." He sighed with a roll of his eyes, "But this doesn't seem the case. Why would Moriarty place me in the same room as a 'fan'? What gain can he receive from that?"  
"Oh my god! Upon my word, it's Sherlock Holmes!"

Hearing the loud sound and distinct sound of a woman's voice calling out his name, Sherlock turned around on his heel, turning Molly around as well. Suddenly, he was face to face with an image from the past, one he had hoped never to see again.

"Kitty Riley," he said, immediately putting a stone face, "Your presence is the very definition of surprise."

"Oh ho, I could say the same about you," the red haired woman replied with a deep laugh. She was dressed in a purple number that went all the way to her ankles with capped sleeves and laced adornments. It appeared that she hadn't aged a day since that writing that article all those years ago. Sherlock, of course, never seriously took a word of it to heart, but he could feel Molly's anger and hatred radiating it off of her.

"Dare I ask what brings you aboard this little voyage?" Sherlock asked, taking Molly's hand into both of his own to comfort her.

"Writing a piece, what else?" Kitty said with a smirk, "I'm not writing many expose and or headline worthy stories these days."

"Yes, it would seem that promoting an atrocious lie with unrealistic sources could completely ruin ones career." Molly quickly stated with a stoic expression. Both Kitty and Sherlock looked at her in surprise, although the latter's expression had an underlining gleam of pride.

"Oh, well, who is this?" Kitty challenged, smirking toward Molly, "No, wait, I remember: Molly...Hooper, is it? Yes! Sherlock's little friend from the morgue."

"More than just a 'little friend', I assure you," Molly hissed through her teeth, squeezing Sherlock's hands.

"Yes, I can see that," Kitty said, motioning her head toward Molly and Sherlock's intertwined hands, "Anyway, I'm here to write up a piece on this little boating venture. The first, transatlantic liner directly from England to America in quite some time; it's exciting, no?"

"Indeed," Sherlock replied, "Very different from what you are used to."

"Mr. Holmes, what would you know about what I'm used to? I've changed, I promise you," Kitty teased, "Despite what you may think, I've kept my distance from the public eye these past few years. I must say, writing a story that ends up being a complete fabrication, ruined my career but I do not give up so easily. You and I very much alike in that sense, Mr. Holmes."

"Are we?"

"Yes. I mean, after all, you cam back from the dead just to prove your innocence. That has got to be the most defining feat of not giving up. I am sure your lover, Ms. Hooper, would agree. What do you say, Molly? May I call you, Molly?"

"I'd actually prefer it if you didn't speak with me at all," Molly replied, but before the conversation could go any further, there came a ringing of a bell from the staff member from behind the buffet table.

"If you please, ladies and gentlemen," the man announced, looking straight ahead, "take your seats and dinner will begin."

"Ooo, how very exciting: a call to dinner." Kitty said with a laugh, "Shall we then?"

"It appears we shall," Sherlock replied, "though I would recommend you sit as far away from Ms. Hooper and I as possible."

"Oh, Sherlock," Kitty sighed, playfully tapping his shoulder, "there's only two other parties in this room: the couple over there and your interested friend by the bar. You and I can't be far apart, even if we tried."

And with that, the journalist took her leave to find her spot at the table. Sherlock and Molly shared a look, both wordlessly speaking volumes about their account with just now. Molly then squeezed Sherlock's hand and placed a soft kiss on his knuckles;

"Don't let her bother you," she whispered, "Let me carry all that for you."

"I couldn't ask that of you, Molly," Sherlock replied, kissing her temple, "Come, let's sit. I fear Kitty Riley is not the only one of these few guests that bear some sort of a ill connection to our lives."

"I hope your wrong, Sherlock," she sighed as they began to walk, "For the first time in as long as I've known you, I hope you are wrong."

_**Well, there you are! I know it's later than I said, but I wanted to get this up for you guys! I will be leaving for London so I won't be able to update until I come home. I hope you enjoyed this short update and that the twist was exciting. Please let me know what you think; your responses do mean a lot to me. I apologize, I couldn't PM the previous responses bur I assure you that I took them each to heart. Thank you so much and I'll see you in the next chapter; the case will thicken, I promise.**_

_**Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	18. Chapter 17: Nothing Left To Prove

_**Chapter 17: Nothing Left to Prove**_

As if they were actors being called to their places at the top of a show, the small group of passengers took their seats at the dining table. Sherlock and Molly sat on the left side, parallel to the couple in the matching black attire. Kitty was at the head of the table to their right while the bearded man from beside the bar sat at the opposite end to their left. The air was thick with tension; no one seemed to fully understand what or why this was happening. Nonetheless, they were all just going with the odd flow of events. Only Sherlock and Molly had an inkling of what might be happening, but even that was a mere hunch.

It was all still too vague, too aloof.

Besides, the star had yet to make his grand entrance.

The stage was set, but where was Moriarty?

Molly held tightly to Sherlock's hand, drumming her fingers over his knuckles; "I'm afraid," she whispered in his ear, "This doesn't feel right."

"None of this is right, Molly." he replied, stifling a cough, "We-we need to to just...have to-Damn this cough." Turning away slightly, Sherlock gave a few deep cough into the crook of his arm, but then quickly composed himself. Catching Molly's look of concern out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock gave her hand a reassuring squeeze; "I'm okay," he went on with a smile, catching his breath fully, "Don't you worry about me."

Molly sheepishly smiled back: "Easier said then done."

"I'll tell you if I'm feeling unwell or any worse."

"Will you?"

Before Sherlock could muster a reply, the crew member from before spoke again: "Ladies and gentlemen, we welcome you aboard our little across the sea. Albeit a small group, you were each chosen as passengers for a specific reason. The captain will be in shortly to greet and join you all, but until then, please, enjoy yourselves."

The harp started up again as another crew member approached the table and began pouring each guest a glass of wine. A few seconds later, another man began to serve each guest a green salad. No one spoke; what was there to say? They all just stared at one another, watching and waiting for God only knew what to happen next. Finally, after they had each begun to pick at their food, one voice broke the tension filled ice.

"You're-You're that detective, aren't you?" the woman in the black dress asked Sherlock, "The one who, well, who died, yes?"  
"Anna, please" the man beside her whispered, but Sherlock responded before he could continue his warning.

"Yes, I am," Sherlock said, locking his gaze with her's, "The name's Sherlock Holmes."

"I know your name, Mr. Holmes," Anna replied, "I just wanted to be sure. You look, well, very different from your pictures in the papers."

"I've heard that before," Sherlock dryly responded, but then his brow furrowed slightly in thought. Molly instantly recognized it as his expression when he deduces something about a subject that doesn't exactly fit.

"Be nice," she whispered to him as she gives his hand, still tightly intertwined with her's, a squeeze.

"Forgive me," he began, still gazing harshly at Anna, "but have we met before?"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," she said with a giggle, her cheeks blushing a light pink, "you wouldn't remember me if I told you that we had."

Surprised by her response, Sherlock raised an eyebrow: "So, we have?"

"Perhaps she was a client," Kitty interjected, leaning back into her chair as if she were a queen on a throne, holding her wine glass up, "or a fan? Do you read the blog, Ms.-Anna, was it?"  
"It's , Anna Pierce," Anna replied, giving Kitty a confused look, "And, yes. I do actually read Dr. Watson's blog."

"So, she's a fan then!" Kitty said, facing Sherlock, "Which type is she, Sherlock: _'Catch me before I kill again' _or _'Your bedroom's just a taxi ride away'_?"

"What?" Molly coughed, nearly choking on her salad at the surprise of Kitty's statement.

"Pay it no mind," Sherlock quickly said.

"Yes, pay it no mind, Molly," Kitty added on, "It's just a little thing specially between Sherlock and I. Isn't that right?"

Sherlock just glared in response to her allusion to their first meeting all those years ago. Kitty only gave him a smug smile in return.

"Um, Mr. Holmes, I-I hope don't find my wife as intrusive," Mr. Pierce said, trying to change the subject or rather steer the conversation away from Kitty.

"Hardly," Sherlock replied, facing the man now, "I assure you, I do not mind her questions."

"It's only because I do find it all very interesting," Anna said, sipping her wine, "I mean, Mr. Holmes, can you really figure out everything there is to know about a person from just one look?"

"I find out enough," Sherlock replied, "Sometimes it's the smallest of details that give way to the bigger picture. For example, take Ms. Riley here." All eyes then turned toward Kitty as the color seemed to instantly drain from her face and the smug expression disappeared in an instant; "The dried pen ink on her finger tips tells me that she spends her time hand writing her notes and pieces. An old fashioned practiced nowadays, but she knows that hand writing is more credible than a typed document; a typed piece can be challenged as plagiarized much easier than the physical product. So, she cares about being correct. Then, there's her dress."

"My dress," Kitty sighed, "do tell the secrets my dress reveals, Sherlock."

"Not secrets, just one secret," Sherlock smugly replied, "You're broke."

"Am I?"

"Clearly. Why else would an egotistical, prideful woman such as yourself wear an item that is fringing at the seams and barely fits you? You're someone who would dress to the nines if she could, no matter the occasion. Here you are, on board a luxury ship, one of only 5 other exclusive passengers, parading yourself as the cream of the crop, and you are wearing a cotton number that's dated, I would go as far as say, 3 years back. In fact, I know that's how old it is."

"Really?" Kitty challenged, "Did the lace give that away?"

"No." Sherlock coldly stated, "That's the dress you wore when you tried to get into my funeral. You had to write a follow up to your expose, the one that had seemed to cause me to take my own life. How very tasteful of you, Kitty."

The air in the room seemed to still and all eyes quickly turned back to their own plates. Molly gave Sherlock's hand another squeeze, but he didn't break his eye contact with Kitty. He just glared, almost in a challenging way, as if to dare her to utter a response. Fortunately for everyone else, Kitty decided to break away from his gaze and poke at her salad.

"That...that was fascinating," Anna finally said, looking back at Sherlock, "You're simply brilliant."

"Anna," her husband said, but then turned his expression to Sherlock as well, "I am sorry, Mr. Holmes. My wife can be a bit of tabloid enthusiast."

"Richard, I am not," Anna rebutted, "and don't act like your not surprised to see him here too. You were all over that article about him being a fraud. Oh! Not that we actually believed a word of it, Mr. Holmes, I assure you."

"Everyone else did," Kitty muttered under her breath as she sipped her wine.

"It's alright," Sherlock said, ignoring the writer's comment, "I've put that all behind me."

"I apologize for even bringing it up," Anna went on, "Of course, you wouldn't want to talk about any of that."  
Sherlock dismissively waved his hand through the air and cleared his throat; "I'm not much of a talker anyway, Mrs. Pierce. Don't take that personally."  
"HA! Isn't that the truth," Kitty said, finding her confidence again, "You are a hard man to crack, Sherlock Holmes, but I am glad someone finally broke your shell. Good on you, Molly Hooper."

Molly's cheeks turned a bright shade of red and she suddenly felt very warm. Her heart began to pound a hundred miles a minute as she nervously looked around at all of the gazes that were now on her. No response or any words for that matter were coming to her mind. It would seem that she was frozen in embarrassment; not that she was embarrassed to be with Sherlock but more so of how Kitty just decided to announce it to the table. She cleared her throat and looked down at her fiddling fingers in her lap, trying to imagine herself anywhere but at in that room at this moment.

"Oh, Ms. Hooper," Anna said, "Are you and Mr. Holmes-"

"Together. Yes, we are," Sherlock quickly answered for Molly, taking her slightly shaking hands into his and giving them a reassuring squeeze, "Dr. Hooper is my girlfriend and has been for some time now." He then turned his gaze, locking his eyes with Molly's, "I've asked John to keep that bit of information off the blog, for her safety as well as for my own personal reasons." he went on, "She means quite a lot to me."

A small smile grew across Molly's lips as her nerves calmed a bit. He always did seem to have that affect on her.

"It makes sense. You deserve a personal life, Mr. Holmes." Richard said in a proud voice, "Forgive me, though, I am curious: What are you doctor of, Ms. Hooper?"

"I, um, I'm a pathologist," Molly replied, cursing herself internally for sounding so meek.

"Ah! Must be handy for the trade then, Mr. Holmes," Richard went on with a hearty chuckle, "You solve the murders and your girl lays out the body."

"If you please, Mr. Pierce," Sherlock said, quickly turning his strong gaze toward the man, "I'd appreciate it if you would not refer to her as _'my girl'_. I do not own this woman, nor has that thought even once crossed my mind."

"Always so literal," Kitty challenged, but before she could go any further, Sherlock shot her an icy stare that shut her up in a matter of seconds.

"Well, I think it's nice Richard and I aren't the only couple here," Anna said, trying once again to bring the mood back up, "We thought we'd be the only ones."

"To be honest, we didn't know what to expect when we got the invitation in the mail," Richard added, "It came from work, just right of the blue."

"Same for me!" Kitty interjected, "There I was, sitting in my office at home, and then along comes this invite in the post asking me to come aboard and write a piece on this liner. Odd isn't it? I never heard of this company before, have you Sherlock?"

"No," he replied, coldly, "I have not."

"Well, this is very interesting," Anna said, "A middle class couple, a detective, a pathologist, a writer and a...a-I'm sorry, sir, but I didn't catch your name. Well, actually, you have yet to speak at all."

All eyes then turned toward the quiet, bearded man at the end of the table. He didn't seem phased or at all interested in the conversations that had been happening; his focus seemed to only be on Sherlock.

"I didn't feel the need to speak, ma'am," he said after a few more moments of silence, "My name is David. David Peterson."

"And what is it that you do, Mr. Peterson?" Sherlock asked, locking his gaze with this man's. They seemed to be reading each other, but not in the way Sherlock was accustomed to. This man, this David Peterson, seemed to know something, something important. He looked at Sherlock much like a priest looks a confessor, with a sense of pity but with an even more so sense of understanding.

"Huh, you don't really know," David replied, not in a mocking way, but more in a tone of surprise, "It makes sense."

"Does it?" Sherlock asked, "And why is that?"

"It doesn't surprise me that you don't recognize me," he went on with a chuckle, "It has been a very long time, Sherlock, and you were no more than 16 last time we saw each other."

A look of pure surprise come over Sherlock's face. Even more confusion and tension melded into his mind as he furrowed his brow. He tried to muster some sort of a rustle, but nothing was coming to him. He searched through his mind palace for any hint or sign of who this man might be, but it was to no avail. A piercing headache was also starting to pound against his skull, making his thoughts much more difficult to collect.

"Sherlock," Molly whispered, breaking him from his muddled thoughts. She gave his hand a loving squeeze as he shook his head, as if that were to help clear his mind. He then came back to the present and made eye contact with David once more.

"I, um, I'm sorry," he said, "but I can't seem to remember how we know one another."

"Ooo, Sherlock Holmes doesn't remember something," Kitty taunted, sipping her wine again, "Must have hit your head pretty hard on the pavement all those years ago."

"Christ," Molly suddenly exclaimed, taking the whole table by surprise, "can you be any more inconsiderate?"  
"Oh, come off it. It was just a joke," Kitty scoffed, "The two of you must look back and laugh at the whole thing by now."

"No, we don't." Molly replied, "I actually don't find anything about your article or the events that followed amusing. Do you even understand the damage you caused?"

"Molly," Sherlock whispered, but she wasn't about to stop.

"Sherlock had to leave everything behind, stage his own suicide for Christ sake, just to get away from it all!" she went on, "Your article completely destroyed who he is."

"Oh! You're the woman who wrote that article!" Anna said, furrowing her brow, "Oh! Oh my, you-you horrible woman!"  
"Hey, I was only doing my job!" Kitty said in an attempt to defend herself, "A source came to me with a story and I followed it."

"Obviously not closely enough," Molly sneered, "Moriarty was just lying right to your face."

"He lied to everybody," Kitty shot back, "If you recall, he faked his death as well. By the way, how's that investigation going, Sherlock? All of London saw that video; got any leads, Detective?"  
"It's an ongoing investigation," Sherlock quickly replied, "It's, um, I-Pardon me." Suddenly, Sherlock closed his eyes tightly and started to rub the bridge of his nose. The look that had just overcome him could only be described as one of being in harsh pain.

"You alright?" Richard asked, raising an eyebrow, "You look at bit-"

"He's fine," Molly answered for Sherlock, placing a protective hand on his shoulder, "Just-He's fine." She had taken note of how pale he was now; it seemed that color in his cheeks had completely drained since they had entered the room. Sweat beads were peppering his forehead and she could feel his pulse racing through the hand she tightly held. Their eyes met and it was clear that he was on the brink of passing out._ 'Please don't be sick. Not now,' _she begged, placing a hand on his cheek, _'Please.'_

"Would you like some water, ?" Richard asked, then he turned toward one of the crew members still in the room, "Can't you see this man is ill? Perhaps you should do something."

"No, no, I'm...I'm alright." Sherlock spoke, taking deep even breaths, "It's-It's only a headache. Please, don't fret over me." He then looked into Molly's eyes and gave her a small nod. Suddenly, Sherlock rose to his feet. "If you'll excuse me," he said, grabbing onto the table to balance himself a bit. Molly started to rise as well, but Sherlock gently motioned for her to remain seated; "I'm alright," he assured her, "I just need a-a moment." With that, he took off toward the exit that lead out toward the observation deck.

Once he was out of the dinning room, Sherlock ran his hands through his curls and began to breath heavily. The world around him was spinning and fatigue was quickly over taking his whole body. He ran over to the edge of deck, putting his whole body weight against the rails, and heaved over the side. There wasn't much sick for him to throw up, but it was enough to cause Sherlock to feel like he had spent every last once of his energy.

His mind was in a whirl-spin and everything was muddled and confusing. Every sight before his eyes was spinning 100 miles a minute, blurring into messes of colors and smears. Sherlock let out a heavy groan as he closed his eyes and slowly sunk to hid knees. Placing his forehead against the cool railing, Sherlock began to focus on catching his breath. The cold night air was helping, but only just a small bit. Nothing really could help at this moment, not when the pain and those thoughts were coming back at full force.

'_What is happening to you?'_ he thought to himself, allowing his head to roll from side to side,_ 'You were okay mere moments ago. What happened?'_

"Need someone to hold your hair back, sweetie?"

Sherlock's eyes suddenly shot open at the sound of that voice. The pain, although still there and prominent, became just a thought in the background of his mind. Dark memories erupted at the forefront as anger built up in his chest. Slowly regaining some balance, Sherlock gripped the railing and brought himself up to a standing position. His back was too the speaker, but he didn't need to turn to know who was there.

The man who had finally made his entrance into the narrative.

"I must say that this is a surprise," Moriarty continued, stuffing his hands into his suit pant pockets as he walked toward Sherlock, "I had heard rumors, but my, my, my, Sherlock. Look at you: Death's doorstep must be your new place of residence."  
"It's always been a neighboring spot for me," Sherlock replied, staring out ahead at the dark sea.

Moriarty laughed a bit as he came to stand right beside the consulting detective. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock took in the sight of the man who he had seen take his own life right before looked exactly the same as he did on that rooftop all those years ago: clean cut, polished, a hint of madness glistening in his eyes.

Nothing had changed.

The game had picked up from where they left off.

"I'm waiting, you know," Moriarty spoke, nudging Sherlock's arm, "Aren't you going to ask me?"  
"You honestly think that I'm going to straight out ask you why you're not dead," Sherlock scoffed, still looking ahead, "I thought you held me in higher regard then that."

"Yeah, but you've gone soft since last we met," Moriarty said with a hint of disgust in his voice, "You're all domesticated and full of emotion. You've become boring, Sherlock, just plain boring. Still, I've got to give Molly some credit. I didn't think she had it in her to finally catch you. Then again..." Moriarty then leaned in close, setting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and whispered in his ear: "She's always been the one whose mattered the most in this world."

Fueled by his anger finally reaching a boiling point, Sherlock spun around to grab Moriarty's collar, but the dizziness was too much for him. Moriarty stepped away from Sherlock and watched as the consulting detective fell to the ground lack a bag of waste.

"Oh, oh God, look at you," Moriarty taunted, kneeling down to Sherlock's level, "You're like a sick, little boy: so lost and so broken.

"Isn't...Isn't this what you wanted," Sherlock breathed out, raising up on his hands and knees, "Me, on the brink of the end."

"Eventually," Moriarty said with a shrug, "but_ I _wanted to be the one to put you there. Yet again, the Lord has beat me to the punch."

"No deity has a single thing to do with this," Sherlock breathed out.

"I'm going to stop you right there; I don't really care to get a religious debate with you, Sherlock. Too dull." Suddenly, Moriarty kicked Sherlock back to the ground, laughing as the detective landed on his back with a thud. Sherlock attempted to fight back, but he was so weak that even standing seemed to be a strenuous effort. He felt as if he had no control of his body as his enemy stepped down with his right foot down against his chest.

"Oh, I've been looking forward to this," Moriarty went on, leaning down so that Sherlock would hear him perfectly, "It's going to be beautiful, your demise. I'm going to break you in front of those people in that dining room and it is going to be so satisfying. Oh, can you imagine Molly's expression? Ooo, that is going to be something."  
"Don't speak about her," Sherlock groaned as he poorly attempted to push the leather clad foot off of his chest.

"Hey! She was my girlfriend first, remember?" Moriarty taunted, "I know how sensitive she is, how sweet she is, but most importantly, I know how much she loves you. Didn't your big brother tell you never to mess with emotions? They are a dangerous thing: so deadly and so easy to use to one's advantage. He then leaned in even closer, now practically kneeling down on top of Sherlock's chest;

"I'm going to make this slow," he hissed into Sherlock's ear, "You'll be awake for all of it and you'll get to see each of those people's expressions as you take in your last breaths."  
"Why...why would that-that matter?" Sherlock coughed out as the pressure on his chest increased.

"Because you know them, Sherlock, every one of them. Yes, Molly is obvious as is Kitty, but do you really not remember Anna? Not even David Peterson? Hmm, well, won't this be fun for everyone then."

Just as Sherlock was about to speak again, a loud scream could rang out through the air.

It was a woman's scream, one that Sherlock instantly recognized.

"Molly," he breathed out, but before he could make a move, Moriarty quickly covered the detective's mouth with a handkerchief.

The scent of chloroform immediately filled Sherlock's nostrils. He knew that in mere moments he would be unconscious. He tried to push his enemy off of him, but his illness had gotten the best of him. There was not an ounce of strength left in his body to fight back.

"Go to sleep, Sherlock," Moriarty said in a sickly sweet tone, "When you wake, everyone will be around you. I've got you now, Sherlock Holmes, and oh the things I have planed for you."  
As the drug began to take it's full affect, Sherlock's body became still and his arms dropped to his sides as if they were too heavy to keep up anymore. As Sherlock's breath started to slow and even out, he allowed his busy mind to go blank. His eyes rolled back as a hazy darkness finally overtook him.

_**Hello all! I'm back from London (and seeing Hamlet live...HOLY COW)!**_

_**Thanks for sticking around and I hope this chapter was worth the wait. I am very excited to get started with the Moriarty segment of this story. I know that it all seems a bit confusing right now, but I do have a plan. I promise. Let me know what you think. I always do enjoy reading your comments; they really do help the writing process. **_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	19. Chapter 18:Like the Dark Love the Doubt

_**Chapter 18: Like the Dark. Love the Doubt**_

"_I'm Alright. I just need a-__a__ moment."_

"Well, that was a bit odd," Richard said, turning his attention back toward one of the crew members, "Shouldn't one of you go and check on the poor man? He looked as pale as a sheet!"  
"He's fine," Molly quickly said, keeping her eyes glued to the exit her lover just went through, "He just, um, has these moments."

"Is he ill very often?" David Peterson asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

Molly turned to him, her thoughts peeked by his tone. Part of her wanted to ask _"Why do you care?"_ while the other questioned,_ "Do you know something?"_

"I don't believe it is any of our business," Anna added, "If Mr. Holmes and Ms.-I'm sorry-Dr. Hooper don't wish for us to delve into their personal lives, then we shouldn't." She gave Molly a sweet, simple smile to which Molly returned in kind.

"Still, I think one of these people should go check on him," Richard continued to push, "You, by the bar! Or you, by the door, standing there like a prized statue! Check on your guest!"

"Oh, Richard, calm it down," Kitty said, "They aren't trained for that sort of thing. It's obvious they are just hired hands: here to just stand and look pretty."

"You are right about one thing, Ms. Riley," came a voice from the entrance, "We are hired hands, but not in the way you think."

The guests turned to see a man that Molly instantly recognized from the front desk. His shark like smile was spread wide across his cheeks as he pulled a gun out from the side of his trousers. He fired at the table, the bullet striking Kitty right in the shoulder. Molly let out a scream of fright as she jumped up from her seat. Suddenly, there was small prick on her neck and darkness instantly took over.

_A few hours later_

'_Get up, Molly.'_

Molly's head was pounding and it felt as if her stomach was doing non-stop flips at an ungodly speed. Her limbs felt as if they weighed down by some invisible load, making it strenuous to move and stretch out. Curling in on herself, Molly let out a groan attempted to mentally shut out the discomfort. She was in that state of asleep and awake where one doesn't want to stir and open their eyes just yet. Despite that, though, her mind was pleading, begging, for her to wake up.

'_Something isn't right, Molly. You need to get up.'_

Still not opening her eyes, Molly attempted to sift through her muddled thoughts and recollect as to how she ended up in this state. She thought back to dinner, sitting awkwardly at the table and listening to everyone speak about Sherlock and that article from all those years ago. How desperately she wanted to speak out more then she did; Sherlock didn't deserve to hear about all that again, and frankly neither did she. Then there was that man-David, wasn't it?-who seemed to have known Sherlock back in his youth. That couldn't have been a random coincidence; Moriarty must know something about them. And then that couple, they seemed to know Sherlock too, or at least the wife did. What did that mean? Who were these people?

'_You need to get up and figure this out. Find Sherlock.'_

Sherlock. He was so calm, so collected through the whole dinner. Sure, he let his guard down against Kitty but only just slightly. The amount of anger he truly felt was completely contained. Molly envied him for that. She wanted desperately to lash out against that woman, spill out every feeling she had since that article's publication, but she didn't. Sherlock seemed to have said everything for her, in his own way.

'_Where is Sherlock? He should be here.'_

He had left the table in a rush, clearly not feeling well. Molly had been afraid that he was on the brink of passing out, and yet she didn't follow him out. Why? She was cursing herself internally for that minor mistake. What if he had passed out and was all alone, lying God knows where, hoping someone would find him? What if Moriarty found him? Too many questions were floating around in her brain, but each one had the same answer:

'_Get up, Molly! Find him!'_

Finally succumbing to her internal demands, Molly allowed her eyes to flutter open. She found herself to be lying on the floor of the dinning room just beside the table. All of the lights were out; the room was only illuminated by the moonlight peeping through the curtain drawn windows. Everything around her was still, almost eerily still. Nothing seemed to be touched, almost as if the room's previous tenants had disappeared into thin air. She was alone which only begged the question more: Where was Sherlock? More so, where was everyone else? Had they returned to their rooms and, if so, why?

Pulling herself up into a sitting position, Molly let out a groan and started to stretch out her aching muscles. She snatched up her purse that was lying beside her as she tried to remember what exactly had happened. Her mind was foggy and nothing seemed to make sense, but she knew she just had to push through it. _'That's what Sherlock would do,'_ she thought, _'Where is he?'_

The last thing she could recollect was sitting at the table, keeping her eyes on the exit door and hoping Sherlock would come back in at any moment. But then there was...chaos. Yes, unexpected chaos as a gun appeared in the hands of one of the crew members. There was a shot and she had let out a scream. Then there was a sharp prick on her neck and then...nothing. As these scattered images came over her, Molly cautiously rose to her feet and quickly made her way to the door.

'_Come on, Molly, think!' _she scolded herself, _'What happened after the shot? You screamed and then what?'_

With shaky steps, Molly found her way to the exit. She pushed the door open and took off down the hall back to her state room. No one was around to stop her and, even if they were, she didn't care. She just had a deep need to get back to the room. Her phone was there, she could call for help! But what help would come? They were in the middle of the ocean, who would save them and from what? Even Molly wasn't sure anymore of what or who the threat was at this point.

'_John,' _she thought as she started to pick her fast gait up to a run,_ 'I can get to my phone and call John. It's not your best idea, Molly, but it's the only one you've got.'_

"Two hundred and seven. Two hundred and seven." she panicked under her breath as she searched for the door. Still no one appeared to stop her; it seemed as if she was the only person on-board. After what seemed like an eternity, Molly found her cabin door. She quickly took her key out of her purse and unlocked the door. Molly then hurried inside and shut the door the instant she was fully in the room.

"Molly! You made it!"

A cold chill ran up her spine as Molly slowly spun around to face the speaker, hand still tightly holding the doorknob. Tears instantly started to well up in her eyes as her whole body started to shake with fear. _'No, no, no,' _was the only word that ran on a constant loop in her mind. Despite all the evidence, the proof that had been laid before her, Molly wanted to believe that he wouldn't come back, that he hadn't come back.

He was supposed to be dead.

She wasn't supposed to hear that voice ever again.

He was supposed to be dead.

"Sorry we had to leave you back there," Moriarty practically sang as he took a few steps toward her, "but I couldn't risk you waking up while we were setting up your surprise. That would spoil the fun, wouldn't it? Everyone is waiting in the bedroom. Well, when I say waiting, you know what I really mean, don't you? Locked in with my men holding guns to their heads. Except for Ms. Riley; she's having her shoulder tended to. I told the idiot not to fire and yet he did. Stupid; ordinary people are just idiots. Sherlock agrees with me, you know?"

She opened her mouth to speak but she was unable to form any words. She was too afraid; too afraid to speak, too afraid to fight back, too afraid to do anything.

"God, look at you!" he went on, "Pretty as a rose bud. Domesticity suits you well; not so much your other half, though. When I saw Sherlock, he looked...rough, to say the least. Life hasn't been treating him all that well, has it?"

More confusing thoughts filled Molly's mind as she tried to think of something, really anything, to do. Her eyes darted toward the bedroom door, dreading what was really on the other side.

She wanted to reply.

She wanted to run.

She wanted this to be just a dream.

She wanted to wake up.

"God, you look fantastic!" he continued, filling up the gap between them, "Is this what pure joy looks like? Your shining face, that glimmer in your eyes; Oh, Molly, hon'. You are just smitten with love." Moriarty then slowly reached out his hand and gently stroked back a loose strand of her hair; "Your shaking like a leaf, Molly," he cooed, "Something the matter? Oh, is it me? Am I making you uncomfortable? Figures. Can't be easy to talk to an ex."

"You-you're supposed to be dead." Molly finally managed to whisper, pressing all the way back against the door.

"Is that really all you can think of to say?" Moriarty asked with a roll of his eyes, "I'm disappointed, Molly. I had thought that by being Sherlock's little muse you'd have become much more clever. He speaks so highly of you."

"Don't talk about him as if you know him." she snapped in response.

"Oh, but honey, I do," he taunted, "I know Sherlock Holmes better than anyone: better than Mrs. Hudson, better than John, better than his dear old big brother too. But you, Ms. Hooper. You just might be my challenger." Moriarty then snatched her wrists with both hands, causing her to drop her purse. He then pinned her arms up above her head and pressed his whole body weight against her. Molly wanted to scream out in terror but she was too frozen with fear. She was living out her darkest nightmare and no one was around to help.

Where the hell was Sherlock?

What had Moriarty done?

"You've had Sherlock, I mean, really_ had _him," Moriarty went on, nuzzling his forehead against hers, "What's he like in bed, hmm? Better than me? I bet you like to forget that we ever had sex. I would even go as far as to guess that, despite your best efforts, you think about me when your having him. Is that so, Molly? Do you think about Jim from I.T. while your fucking Sherlock Holmes for Baker Street?"

"Stop. Stop it." Molly whispered, closing her eyes as tears streamed down her face, "Please, let me go."

"Ugh, there you go again being so unoriginal," Moriarty said with a sigh, "Honestly, Molly, please try to make this a little more exciting." As he brushed his thumbs across her cheeks to wipe away her tears, Moriarty let out a breathy chuckle: "So sweet. So innocent." he sighed, "Sherlock made a good choice in picking you. So much better than that Jeanine character. You know what, I actually believed that they were together. Silly, I know, but I guess he and I are the only ones who can fool one another."

"Don't-Don't talk about him as if...as if you know him," Molly stammered, her voice sounding as strong as possible.

"Oh ho, fighting words," Moriarty teased, "Little, mousy Molly Hooper has a big, beefy backbone." Suddenly, his hold on her face tightened as he leaned in and licked the tears from her left cheek. "So sweet." Moriarty whispered just before he nipped her earlobe, "So very, very sweet."

He then started to let his hands gently glide down from her cheeks and down to her shoulders. His lips too began to wander further down her neck, placing chaste, sicking kisses along the way. Molly squeezed her eyes shut even tighter and quickly swallowed down the bile rising up in her throat. When would this living nightmare end? Part of her wished that she was about to wake up at Baker Street with Sherlock sound asleep beside her. She wished this whole case had been some dark dream and that Moriarty wasn't back.

He couldn't be back.

He shouldn't be back.

And yet, here he was.

A loud groan from further in the room broke Molly's train of thought. Moriarty let out an annoyed sigh as he pulled himself back together; "Always so rude when company interrupts, isn't it?" he said, with a roll of his eyes, "Aw well! Guess I was just wasting time; Had to indulge myself just a bit. Can you blame me?" Very slowly, Moriarty took a few steps back, giving Molly room to breathe: "Now, are you going to be good and not make some stupid attempt to fight me?" he taunted, holding his hand out to her, "Really, you don't have much choice in the matter."

Molly stood there in fear, her eyes darting from his out stretched hand to his eyes. She didn't want to touch him; the very thought of her skin touching his made her want to gag. And yet, he was complete right. There was no way for her to get out of this. She didn't have a choice. She had to follow his lead. Shaking like a leaf, Molly stepped forward and took his hand into hers.

"There we go," Moriarty said with a devilish grin as he lead her further into the room, "Not so hard was is?"

Before Molly could even attempt a reply, her eyes suddenly landed on the groaning figure in the middle of the dimly lit room. Hanging from the chandelier by his wrists, arms up high above his head, was Sherlock.

He looked completely disheveled, as if he had been dragged around by his hair: shirt ruffled and untucked, shoes tossed aside, curls sticking out in every direction. His head was hanging low, keeping his face unseen, but it was clear that his mouth was gagged. His bare feet were tightly bound by a zip-tie around his ankles and were barely scrapping the floor to help him keep steady. His torso, visible due to his undone, black, button-up, was decorated with bruises varying from different shades of purple and yellow. If weren't for the low groaning, Molly would have believed him to be dead. He looked as if that would the case in just a matter of moments.

"No," Molly let out in a quite breath. Finally finding the ability to move again, she let go of Moriarty's hand and ran to Sherlock's side. She immediately cupped his face in her hands and lifted his head so that she could look into his eyes. "Sherlock," she said, brushing her thumbs across his cheeks, "Sherlock, open your eyes. Let me see that you're alright."  
He only continued to groan and furrow his brow. He looked as if he were in a deep sleep and lost in a unsettling dream. It was if he wasn't even there, but locked away in his mind. Molly gently pat his warm cheeks to muster some sort of a response, but it was no good. He was catatonic, breathing slowly but steadily. A small needle mark on the side of Sherlock's neck quickly caught Molly's attention and the pieces seemed to fall together.

"What did you give him?" she asked, gently combing her fingers through Sherlock's curls, "What did you make him take?"

"Just a sedative or two," Moriarty replied in a sing-song tone, "He actually liked it. You should have seen how relieved he looked when I stuck that needle in his neck. Course that was after the first hour of him hanging up here like this and my boys were done having their fun with him. Must have been in a pain, don't you think?"  
Molly could feel her heart breaking in her chest as more tears began to escape from her eyes. Her fingers ghosted over the black and blue bruises adorning Sherlock's torso. How long had Moriarty had kept him like this? He looked as if he'd been through hours of torture...or was he simply that weak that even the slightest hit could crumple him. Without a second thought, Molly wrapped her arms around Sherlock's body and embraced him, like a child clinging to a toy to bring them some form of internal comfort.

"You're a monster," Molly whispered to Moriarty, as she nuzzled her head into the space between Sherlock's neck and shoulder.

"Oh come on, Molly, don't be so melodramatic," Moriarty responded, "He fought back...for the most part. In between the coughing fits, he fought really well." He then stepped toward the couple and set a hand on Sherlock's arm; "Poor, poor, Sherlock Holmes," he went on, "Such a delicate creature. Any who, time for business."

Suddenly, Moriarty shoved Molly away causing her to stumble to the ground. Out of what seemed like nowhere, two pairs of arms grabbed Molly by the shoulders and hoisted her up to her feet, pulling her away from the center of the room.

"Let me go. Let me go." She said between struggling attempts to get back to Sherlock.

"Oh, hush," Moriarty sighed, "This will only be a moment." He then pulled a small container out from his jacket pocket and popped it open right under Sherlock's nose. After a few moments, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and his breathing returned to normal. "There we go," Moriarty sang out, "Open those beautiful eyes, Sherlock. Time to wake up and face the day." Sherlock let out a few muffled grunts and then began to lazily struggle and break himself free. "Now, now, now, we talked about this earlier," Moriarty went on, setting his hands on Sherlock's arms, "You have nowhere to go." He then kneed Sherlock in the groin, causing the consulting detective to let out a a loud cry of pain.

"Ooo, a bit tender there, are we?" Moriarty teased, "Too bad. But, you must have a stiff upper lip now, Sherlock. Don't want to look like a pussy in front of dear, sweet Molly, do we?"

"Sherlock!" Molly cried out, struggling again, "Turn around! I'm here!"

"Can you hear her or are you not fully awake yet?" Moriarty whispered into Sherlock's ear, "Maybe you need to get a bit closer, hmm?" He then motioned to the two men holding Molly and instantly she was released.

"Sherlock," Molly whispered as she quickly ran to his side, "Sherlock, look at me. Talk to me, please, say something." She removed the gag from his mouth then cupped his face in her hands, "Say something, please."

It took him a few moments, but Sherlock's eyes locked with hers. "Hello," he breathed out, a half mouth smirk growing across his lips.

"Hello" she cried, letting out a breathy chuckle as she shook her head in disbelief, "That's it?"

"It's-It's all...I can manage," he groaned, just before a small coughing fit over took him. When he finished, blood started to trickle out of the corner of his mouth.

"Sherlock," Molly said, wiping away the blood with her thumb, "Love, what did they do to you?"

"Doesn't matter," he went on, "I-I heard...heard you scream. The...the dining room."

"Don't worry about it." she assured him, "I'm here now. _You're_ here now."  
"Barely."

"That good enough for me."

Completely forgetting about the others in the room, Molly leaned forward and placed a deep kiss on Sherlock's lips. Much to her surprise, he returned the gesture to the best of his ability. Time seemed to still for them and their troubles melted away. That was, until that sickening voice broke through their bliss.

"You are both so cute! Cuddling up like that." Moriarty cooed, "I'd _'ooh' _and _'aw' _if it didn't make me feel sick to my stomach. But we have business to attend to." He snapped his fingers and the two men once again pulled Molly away from Sherlock. "Take her to the others." Moriarty ordered, "I'll let you know when to bring the first one in."

"Wait," Molly panicked as the men pulled her toward the bedroom, "Wait! Sherlock!"

"It's...fine," Sherlock said, "Don't-Try not to...fight."

Molly gave him a worried glance but before she could speak, the men took her inside the bedroom and slammed the door shut.

"So cute," Moriarty taunted, walking around Sherlock like a hawk circling their prey, "Birds of a feather, the two of you are. Too good to be true."

"She won't...break as easily as you think," Sherlock said in between a few more coughs, "She's-she's strong."

"So are you, or so I thought," Moriarty rebutted, "Everyone has a breaking point, Sherlock Holmes. You, more than anyone else, know that. It's what makes it so easy to break you."

"An-and what does this...breaking en-tale?" Sherlock asked, "More beat...beatings?"

"Probably, but that's not the main game." Moriarty replied, "No, no, Sherlock, don't you remember what I said out on the deck: I'm going to break you in front of every single one of the passengers on board little boat. How am I going to do it, you ask? Simple, I'm going to make them tell their story."

"Story?"

"Yes, Sherlock, their story. Because each of their stories are a part of your story. I hand picked each of these passengers because they all played a part in making you, well, you. And not in good ways, oh no. These are the people who made the darkness in you: made you angry, made you recluse, made you strive to be alone."

Sherlock furrowed in brow and struggled to make sense of all Moriarty had said. He had never seen these people before in his life, with the obvious exception of Molly and Kitty Riley. Then again, that David Peterson did say he knew him from his youth and Sherlock could have sworn that Anna woman looked somewhat familiar. Perhaps they were memories locked deep away in his mind palace, but why? Why would he forget them?

"Trying to figure it out?" Moriarty asked, "Figures. Your mind isn't at the top of it's game so I'm not surprised your running a bit slow."

"Your...your drugs aren't...helping," Sherlock said in an attempt at his usually sharp wit.

"Touche," Moriarty said with a chuckle, "but you liked it. I know you did. You liked the escape. The pain was gone and so was your illness for a few moments. You can't tell me that that wasn't blissful. All the suffering just melted away. Wouldn't it be nice to just sleep and never wake up to this failing transport of yours? I could give you that, you know. Want it?"

Sherlock didn't reply, but inside he wanted to say yes. His thoughts from earlier in the day came back to him, from when he was staring longingly at his pill bottle: '_Should I block everything out for good? Get rid of the pain and at the same time toss everything I've fought for aside'_

"But, of course, '_To sleep, perchance to dream'_," Moriarty continued, "Why give it all up when there is so much to look forward too?" Suddenly, he moved to stand toe-to-toe with Sherlock and grabbed both of his arms, squeezing tightly; "I'll give you that escape, Sherlock," he hissed through his teeth, "Be sure of it. I'm going to make your pain go away right after I make you live through every dark moment of your past that you have worked so hard to block out. You'll be broken and then, and only then, will I end your pain."

"You'll break...break me, then kill me." Sherlock whispered

"That's right, Sherlock," Moriarty replied with a sly grin, "and I'm going to make sure you'll stay dead this time. I promise you that."

_**This took so much longer than I was planing. I just couldn't get the ending the way I wanted, so I hope this sufficed. Plus, I was going through some personal issues and just couldn't find the motivation to write. But I did find it and we're here. That's good. Hope the plot is making sense. It's a complicated thing I've got planned out, but I promise there is a plan. Be prepared for some definite hurt in future chapters. Thank you all for your support and letting me know what you think. It truly does help with the whole process. Hearing from you guys really does brighten my day :)**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	20. Chapter 19: Stay Alive

_**Chapter 19: Stay Alive**_

He was starting to loose feeling in his arms.

His vision was begin to blur as the fever reared its ugly head.

It was getting more and more difficult to breathe as the time dragged by.

'_In and out. That's it. Keep that rhythm.'_ Sherlock told himself as he cleared his throat, _'In and out. In and out.' _He let out a groan as Moriarty poked at a particularly tender bruise. The pain wasn't new to him, but in his already weakened state, any small tick or pinch was equal to a knife being driven into his chest. His transport-his broken, beaten, ailing transport-was failing and there was nothing he could do to save it. He could only just let it slip away at the hands of his advisory.

"Aw, are we breaking, Sherlock?" Moriarty taunted, "Come now, where's that stiff upper lip? Don't make this easy for me."

"E-easy," Sherlock breathed out, "You call your com-complex, so-called plan to break...break me easy?

"Let me set it out plainly," Moriarty went on, "You are going to remain in this position, hanging by your dainty wrists like a slab of meat at the butcher shop, and I'm going to ask one of my men to give me one of the passengers. They'll sit here on this couch, staring straight at you, while I lead you both down memory lane. Confused? Let's start off with an easy one then, shall we?"

Moriarty then went over to the bedroom door and knocked a few times. The door creaked opened and a furious, Richard Pierce was tossed out. His hands were tied and a yellow bruise was forming on his cheek. He was fuming, cheeks red with anger and frustration. His eyes met the consulting detective's and, just for a moment, there seemed to be regret clouded within his anger. Sherlock just stared back, stoic as possible, unable to think of a single thing to say.

"Speechless, Dick?" Moriarty asked as he pulled Richard forward, "I'm surprised. You were doing nothing but shouting awhile ago."

"It was when your thug decided to clock me upside the head with his gun that I figured out words weren't exactly how you people negotiate," Richard replied, "Actions tend to speak louder than words with your kind."

"My kind," Moriarty laughed, "Listen to you, sounding like you are so above the common class of criminal. Not me, of course, Dick. I'm above them, and I'm not just saying that as the brains of this organization. I am no common criminal am I, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective attempted to give a glare in response, but the amount of sheer pain that radiated through his veins, made Sherlock let out an uncontrollable groan and close his eyes tightly as possible. He could feel his body fading and control slipping through his fingers. Unconsciousness was slowly crawling up to overtake him. _'Just breathe,' _he kept telling himself as he slowly opened his eyes again, _'Breathe. Breathe.'_

"Woo hoo, Sherlock," Moriarty sang in a taunting way, "Are you with us? Is it the fever? Did you know Sherlock was dying, Dick? It's something, huh. The great Sherlock Holmes, the man who has cheated death on more than one occasion, is once again looking that demon in the eyes and...loosing. The tables have turned."

Richard looked at Sherlock in confusion but his expression cleared as the pieces came together in his mind: "You're ill," he said meekly, taking a step toward Sherlock, "Deathly ill?"

"Obviously," Moriarty scoffed, "Why else do you think I made such an eloquent statement just now? I don't say that about just anyone." He then grabbed Richard by the shoulders and tossed the man down onto his knees so that he was kneeling right in front of Sherlock. Moriarty then pulled a knife out from his trouser pocket and twirled it around in his fingers: "Now, lets get to business," He sneered, "Lets talk about you, Dick."

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?" Richard asked, his voice quivering a bit as he attempted to give off a strong facade, "What good do you think that will do?"

"Please stay on topic," Moriarty plainly stated, running the flat end of the blade across Richard's cheek, "What do you do, Mr. Pierce?"

"I...I'm unemployed." Richard finally answered

"Oh, really!" Moriarty said with mock surprise, "Shame. What did you use to do?"

"Why does that-"

"Answer me."

"Alright, alright. I was an assistant of sorts. I worked for a business man."

"Ah, go on, go on. Give us a name."

"His name was Charles Magnussen."

A pang of guilt suddenly hit Sherlock's stomach. That name still sent chills up his spine but he never let it show. Even now, on the brink of passing out, he kept a stone facade. He knew what Moriarty was doing. The man was trying to bring up bad memories to stir up some response and Sherlock wasn't going to give him the pleasure.

"Magnussen! Isn't that funny," Moriarty chuckled, turning his attention toward Sherlock now, "Wasn't that the last big case you worked on, Sherlock? Wasn't he a suspect?"

"He was a suspect all the time," Richard quickly said, not picking up on Moriarty's tone, "He was a criminal! Everyone knew that."

"And yet you worked for him?" Moriarty asked, "Tell us what you did, Dick. We're dying to hear the details; when you think about it, Sherlock actually is."

Richard shook his head and looked to the ground in shame; "I would accompany him to his...meetings." he admitted, "I never knew how he was able to keep all that information on all those people, but...but I was ashamed to take part in it. Is...Is that why your going to kill me? Did Magnussen have something on you?"

"Me?!" Moriarty laughed, "Oh ho, honey, nobody, not even your son of a bitch boss could get the tiniest bit of information on me. What is you used to say about me, Sherlock? I never leave loose ends or something like that?"

The consulting detective furrowed his brow and let out a labored sigh; "What-what do you gain by...by this?" he asked in a breathy tone, "Asking inane quest-questions about a-a man whose in the grave."

"But are they inane?" Moriarty asked, "I already told you that you have a personal connection with each and everyone of these passengers, so you have no reason to doubt what I ask them."

"Only the fact that...that I don't trust you."

"Oh, well, you have got me there, Sherlock. Here, I'll set the stage a bit differently for you. Think of this whole affair as a mystery: the Case of William Sherlock Scott Holmes. There! I gave you a clever title, now solve this mystery. Make it one that would be deemed a hit on the old blog."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and took a hard look at Richard. It was clear that this affair wasn't going to simply disappear with a few words, so he needed to do what he did best: solve it. As much as it gutted him to do so, Sherlock had to abide by Moriarty's rules and play along with this little, sickening game.

"This is outrageous," Richard said, "You...you can't just have me be a bargaining chip in whatever game you hope to win. And what does my former employer have to do with anything? He's dead!"

"Yes he is and that's the point," Moriarty said, but keeping his gaze on Sherlock, "but there is more. Wanna guess what else there is Sherlock?"

"This has gone far enough!" Richard shouted, "Let us go or...or I swear to God, I'll end you!"

"Oh ho, listen to you!" Moriarty chuckled, "Such a big talker! Was he always like this, Sherlock?" He then let out a dramatic gasp: "Oh dear! I have a given you a clue? Mustn't give the great Sherlock Holmes any hints. He has to figure this out all on his own."  
Sherlock deepened his brow and tried, honestly tried, to focus on who this Richard Pierce really was. It was clear that this man wasn't connected to him solely by Magnussen. There was more, but he just had to find it. This fever wasn't helping him take in as many details as he normally would be able to. Clues and details that would usually appear to him like words on a page were just blurred smudges that darted across his fading vision. Everything was fading away and his thoughts, although in complete shambles, were buzzing through his mind. Sherlock let out a large groan as his eyes rolled back and his head lulled around, unable to remain upright anymore.

'_Stay awake and breathe,' _Sherlock kept repeating in his mind, _'Stay awake and solve it.'_

"Don't you fall asleep, Sherlock," Moriarty said, giving the limp detective's body a shove, "We've only just started."

"Stop this and let us go!" Richard protested again, "You-You have no right to hold us hostage!"

"Does anyone ever really have the right to hold someone hostage?" Moriarty asked, rolling his eyes, "People say the stupidest things when they are afraid, don't they Sherlock?"  
"I'm not afraid!"  
"Aren't you, Dick?"

"You can't scare me."

It was at that moment, a memory flooded forward in Sherlock's mind. He could see it all right in his mind's eye. He was a child, no more than 8 or 9, so innocent but well educated beyond his years. A student at an all boys boarding school far from home and far from anyone who thought like him. He hadn't thought about that time in ages and for good reason: primary school wasn't the kindest of times for him. Other children treated him with hostility and often mocked him for his intelligence. One boy in particular left a rather poignant mark; a boy who, when Sherlock would attempt to out wit him, would constantly tell him:_ "I'm not afraid of you, William Holmes."_

"_I wouldn't expect you to be afraid of me, Pierce," young Sherlock quipped back, not even daring to look up from his experiment, "If my intelligence frightens you, that's your fault not mine."_

"_OOO! Look at little William," Pierce mocked, shoving the boy's shoulder, "Everyone else is ready to head out for holiday break and he's stuck in here, by choice, playing with a dead rat."_

"_It's not playing. I'm working."_

"_On what? Reviving it? Are you lonely, William?"_

"_I'm not even going to explain how idiotic that statement is."_

_Pierce grabbed one of the sharp instruments beside the dissected rat and slashed Sherlock's shoulder with it. The little boy gripped his wound and winced in pain. He didn't have enough time to fight back before Pierce pushed him to the floor. _

"_Fight back, William," Pierce taunted, swinging the blade around, "You think you're so clever and better than the rest of us. Why not prove it? Fight me!"_

"_You wouldn't stand a chance," young William replied, clutching his arm and rolling around to avoid the swings, "I won't stoop to your level."_

_In the distance, he could hear an adult coming into the room to stop what was happening; a rare stroke of luck for the poor boy on the floor. Still, that didn't stop Pierce from egging him on._

"_Come on then, William Holmes!-" the boy taunted._

"You can't scare me." Sherlock breathed out, finishing his memory out loud.

"What was that, Sherlock?" Moriarty taunted, "I'm afraid we couldn't hear you."

"You can't scare me," he repeated, blinking his eyes open, "You...You used to say that to-to me, Richard P-Pierce."

Richard locked eyes with the detective and it seemed the same memories flooded his mind as well. That strong facade that he was trying to uphold melted away as he now looked at Sherlock with an expression of shock. "I-No, it can't be you," Richard said with a shake of his head, "Can it?"

"Ooo, looks like were putting it all together now," Moriarty said with a laugh, twirling the knife in his fingers, "Go on then, let's hear it! How do you know him, Sherlock?"

"We-we were at school together," Sherlock answered, keeping his half-opened eyes on Richard, "We were...were children. Richard Pierce was...was in my class."

"You went by William back then," Richard said, shaking his head in disbelief, "I-I...When your name started appearing in the papers, I had a thought that it was really you, but-"

"But you didn't recognize that small boy in the big, bright, beautiful consulting detective the world was falling for," Moriarty said, "No one forgets their school bully, but the bully always forgets their victim." He then grabbed Richard by the arm and pulled him upright; "Don't you remember slicing William, Richard? Do you remember trying to cut him again and again?" he went on, pushing the befuddled man to stand directly in front of Sherlock.

"How...how did you know about that?" Richard asked

"I know everything, Dick. Just like your former employer." Moriarty said with a devilish smirk, "Do you know what? I bet Sherlock still has the scar. Wanna see?"

Suddenly, Moriarty took his knife and cut the right sleeve of Sherlock's shirt off right at the seam. Moriarty reached up and ripped the fabric off and let it flutter to the ground as if it were nothing. Sure enough, just below Sherlock's shoulder, there was a pink scar, a memory of a wound from his youth. Richard's eyes grew with embarrassment as he looked back and forth between the scar and Sherlock's face.

"I-I was a child," he managed to whisper, "I didn't know what I was doing."

"Sure you did," Moriarty chuckled, "You wanted to show you were better than Sherlock. Trust me, I know how that feels. But I am curious: Why did you hate him so much? Couldn't have just been because of that big old brain, now, could it?"

"We were children," Richard said again, "It was...It was idiotic."

"I...took away his chance to...to escape" Sherlock breathed out, rolling his head back as a large wave of pain rushed over his body, "He...he hated me for it."

"Ooo go on," Moriarty pushed, nudging Sherlock's side, "What was so important about this prize"

But Sherlock couldn't speak. He closed his eyes as his stomach started to churn and his muscles felt as if they were on fire. The fever was causing him to shake, but only just a little. _'Control. Control.' _he kept telling himself,_ 'Don't loose control.'_

"Oh no, Dick, looks like Sherlock won't be talking for a bit," Moriarty said, "Maybe you can answer my question then. Best make it quick; I don't think he'll be conscious for much longer."

"It...It was stupid," Richard said, "Nothing really."

"Obviously it was something," Moriarty said, "or else you wouldn't have taken it out on poor little Sherlock here."

"The...the scholarship," Sherlock moaned, his head rolling from side to side, "You...you needed the money."

Richard bit his lip as he looked at Sherlock, a man barely hanging on to consciousness. He did remember the incident and the anger he felt toward Sherlock still festered inside of him. To some, it was a childish feud but to him it meant so much more.

"It was a school competition," he admitted finally, "The prize wasn't much a scholarship to one of the top university's in England. My family wasn't wealthy; I wouldn't have been able to go to college unless I received that scholarship."

"I see," Moriarty taunted, "You were from a poor family and Sherlock took away your hopes and dreams. That seems to be a common thread for you, Sherlock."

"I couldn't find a job when I was older," Richard went on, "Had I proper graduate education, well, maybe, I would have-It doesn't matter!"

"It does to...to Moriarty," Sherlock breathed out, rolling his head forward again. Opening his eyes about halfway, Sherlock then turned his gaze toward the consulting criminal; "Did you...did you think that bring-bringing my childhood bully to me would...would break me?" he asked, trying to sound unimpressed but his weakness was clearly taking him over.

'_Stay awake. Stay awake.'_

"Oh no, no, no," Moriarty said with a laugh, "I wouldn't hope for such a predictable reaction from you. I have to pry one out." He then took the knife and cut the ties that were binding Richard's hands. He then placed the knife firmly in Richard's hand and gave the man a side-mouth smirk.

"What are you doing?" Richard asked, looking down at the blade.

"Relax, Dick," Moriarty said, clasping Richard's other hand over the blade, guiding him to grip it properly, "there's nothing for you to fear. Sherlock on the other hand-" Moriarty let out a deep chuckled then continued, "Richard, do you wanna live?"

"Yes. Yes, of course,"

"Then cut him."

"What?"  
"Cut him like you did all those years ago. Make him remember why he wanted to forget you."

Richard shook his head, sweat pouring down his forehead. "No! No I won't!" he said, "I was a horrible child back then and William, I mean Mr. Holmes, doesn't deserve it. He needs a doctor!"

"Really? Have you see the state I've kept him in?" Moriarty asked with a laugh, "Do you think I care if he needs a doctor or not? Please." He then stood behind Richard and placed his hands on the nervous man's shoulders. He then leaned in close, his lips mere inches away from Richard's ear: "Sherlock Holmes is a murderer," He whispered, "A cold blooded murderer."

"Wha-what?" Richard asked, "I-I don't understand why-"

"You want to know why you are unemployed," Moriarty continued, as he started to circle around the two men, "You want to know why you and your wife are scrapping for money. You're looking right at the reason."

Richard's eyes once again met Sherlock's and the pieces started to fall into place; "It was an armed robbery. That's what the paper's said," he said, thinking aloud, "You were investigating. It's why you were seen at the scene."

"Always love newspapers," Moriarty whispered into Sherlock's ear, "Don't you?"

"It had to be...had to be done," Sherlock managed to say, ignoring Moriarty's taunt, "He had to die."

"I lost everything," Richard said, "As soon as he was said that as long as I was employed with him, my life was secure. You...you killed him?"

"He was a-a criminal who needed to be...to be stopped."

"Yes, but what about the rest of us? The employees. He had all of our lives set and you...you ruined it."

Sherlock could see the anger building in Richard's gaze and a childish fear began to muster inside of him. Yes, Moriarty was right in saying that Sherlock had forgotten this man; he was a dark element of his already depressing childhood. Logically, he knew that Moriarty was just playing to Richard's weaknesses thus making him want to attack. It was his specialty, praying on the weak minded; Sherlock knew that all too well. But if Richard could be convinced that Sherlock was the sole cause of his troubles, then he could easily have his mind changed.

"Richard, listen...listen to me," Sherlock attempted to say strongly, "You...you were a pawn in Magnussen's game."

"Nice choice of words there, Sherlock," Moriarty whispered in his ear, but Sherlock kept going.

"You knew that Magnussen was...was a man who needed to be stopped," he pushed on, "You knew that despite the-the empty promises he told you, that man was...was never going to follow through."

"How would you know?" Richard asked, "Can you tell me that? Did-Did you know he wasn't going to keep his word?"

"Did you? He-he couldn't have been trusted you knew that."

"And of course you knew!" Richard snapped, "You always knew everything, Will!" His anger had blinded him now as Richard gripped the knife even tighter; "Magnussen gave me a job when no one else would," he went on, "I wasn't as lucky in life like you were so...so I saw a chance and took it. It wasn't ideal, but I could keep my family upright. Then you...you had to ruin it for me."

"Not just you, Dick, but all of Magnussen's employees," Moriarty interjected as he stood behind Sherlock, "Sherlock do you want to tell him about Janine or shall I?"

"Richard," Sherlock breathed out, hanging on to those last threads of wakefulness, "I did what-what I had to."

"You always did," Richard muttered, "and I hated you for it." He looked down at the blade in his hands and then back up at Moriarty; "If I do this," he said, gulping back his fear, "you'll let me and my wife go."

Moriarty just nodded as he placed his hands on Sherlock's shoulders: "Go on then, Dick," he taunted, "Let Little William know how much he's cost you."

Richard's eyes met Sherlock's half-opened ones and he let out a deep sigh; "I could've been someone if you hadn't taken it all from me," he said, "I've had to stoop so low because you got the chance to be someone great." He then sliced Sherlock right across his chest, not cutting too deep but just enough to cause a bit of bleeding. Sherlock hissed in pain and shut his eyes; normally, such a scratch wouldn't be as painful, but in his weakened state it stung like a thousand knives going into his body.

"I hadn't thought about you in years," Richard continued, slicing at Sherlock's chest again, this time a bit deeper, "and yet, you still managed to ruin everything for me."

Again, he cut a sharp line across Sherlock's chest.

"You didn't need the scholarship and yet you took it."

Another slash, this time deeper.

"I had a job finally and you took it all away from me."

Another slash and even more deep.

"Now, me and my wife are in danger because of you!"

Sherlock could feel the blade dig deeper and deeper into his pale skin with every cut. He tried to muffle his cries, keep them inside so not to show his weakness, but even his stubbornness could hide the amount of pain he was in. Richard's words began to meld into just mumbled phrases with each slice. Darkness was overtaking him and he knew that in a matter of moments, he would be unconscious. As Moriarty stood behind him, holding his shoulder's as if to keep him upright, Sherlock could hear the criminal whisper in his ear.

"You're breaking, Sherlock," he taunted, "What would poor Molly think if she could see you?"

Sherlock let out one loud yell as Richard suddenly stabbed the blade into his arm, just below where Richard had cut him all those years ago. His eyes shot open as he tried to catch his breath. Richard just looked at him, slowly backing away in shock and horror of what he'd just done.

"Whoa ho ho, that escalated rather quickly," Moriarty said with a laugh. The consulting criminal then reached up and pulled the knife out of Sherlock's arm and used it to finally cut the man down. Sherlock landed on the ground with a thud, face forward in the carpet. He placed a hand over his wound to stop the bleeding, but even in his weak state, Sherlock knew it was pointless his body convulsing from the pain and the fever now running through his whole body.

"Oh God," Richard breathed out, "I-I didn't mean to...I was just-"

"Anger makes us do silly things," Moriarty said, giving Sherlock's body a swift kick. The detective let out a loud cry as he curled in on himself, too engrossed in his pain to care to hide his broken state. "Look at this," Moriarty went on, leaning down beside Sherlock, "You've done quiet the job, Dick. Sherlock's chest looks as if a cat used it as a scratch board." He then began to run his fingers through Sherlock's curls in almost affectionate way. "Look at you, Sherlock," he whispered to the barely conscious man, "so weak, so lost. And we've only just begun."

Sherlock allowed his eyes to flicker open partially as he looked at Moriarty through a feverish haze. He tried to speak, but as he opened his mouth only a groan of pain came out. His eyes rolled back into his head as he allowed the darkness to take him once more. He wasn't completely unconscious, not yet, but it simply was too much for him to stay complete alert now.

"Will you let my wife and I go now?" Richard asked, "Please I...I just want to leave."

"And leave you shall," Moriarty said, turning his gaze back toward Richard, "just not how you were planing." Suddenly, Moriarty got up and ran the short distance toward Richard, ramming the knife right into the man's chest again and again. Within moment's, Richard Pierce's lifeless body fell to the ground.

"Ugh, I hate when I finish things myself," Moriarty said, tossing the blade aside, "Ah well, sometimes when you want something done right, aye Sherlock? Oh! Wait! You're asleep, aren't you? Damn it, I was really looking forward to a little after torture chat."

He walked back over to Sherlock and knelled back beside him, "Woo, I can feel that fever radiating off of you," Moriarty continued, setting a hand on Sherlock's forehead, "No wonder your so out of it." The detective just let out a groan, but still kept his eyes closed.

"You know, this won't be any fun if you're just going to lie here and bleed out," Moriarty went on, turning Sherlock onto his back. "Good thing there's a doctor just waiting in the bedroom and I'm certain she's just begging to see you," Moriarty said, ripping off the remains of Sherlock's tattered, black button-up. "Gosh, what is Miss. Molly going to say about those cat scratches. Hmm, probably start crying. Typical."

"Don't...sp-speak about...her." Sherlock surprisingly breathed out.

"Oh ho! He's awake," Moriarty cheered, clapping his hands, "Good! I wouldn't want to take a break just when things were starting to get good." Moriarty then lifted Sherlock up onto his feet and propped him up against his side. "Come along, little William," he said as he wrapped an arm around Sherlock's middle to keep him steady, "I know someone who can take a look at that shoulder for you. Wanna guess who?"

"Mmm," was all Sherlock could muster as he was dragged along side Moriarty to the bedroom door.

"Perhaps when can get some painkillers as well," Moriarty continued, "you sure would like that, yes? I don't even need to ask." As they reached the bedroom door, Moriarty give it a loud knock and within moments it was open. He took just a few steps to enter the room, bringing in the limp detective with him. "Paging Doctor Hooper," Moriarty announced proudly as he shoved Sherlock to the ground, "We've got a bit of an injury for you to look at."

_**Hello and a happy new year! Do you hate me for the cliffhanger? Or for taking so long to update? I try to be consistent but sometimes the writing doesn't come to me as easily as I'd like. Thank you for sticking around, though, and it is always lovely to hear from you guys. Let me know what you think, I know things are getting kinda crazy. **_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	21. Chapter 20: Eyes on You

_**Chapter 20: Eyes on You**_

Sherlock heard a gasp as he hit the floor, but he couldn't identify from whom. Then there was loud, piercing ring that echoed through his skull as the pain overcame his body once again. Everything was a blur and fading all around him; he couldn't think, he couldn't move, he was completely catatonic. His mind was blank except for one thought: he wanted this to end. Sherlock groaned and curled in on himself, shivering from the pain and the fever coursing through him. Nothing was worth this amount of pain he was feeling. There was no point in fighting it. All he wanted to do was just sleep.

Even in his state, though, Sherlock was aware of a pair of hands running across his bare back. He then felt those same hands pulling him up and cradling him, gently rocking him back and forth and holding him close. They were softer hands then the ones that belonged to Moriarty, much more delicate and comforting. This pair was one that often brought him so much comfort in even his darkest moments. Somehow, through his overwhelming pain, Sherlock knew who was holding him, taking care of him, and being exactly what he needed.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, love, can you hear me?" Molly called to him, "Sherlock, please! Talk to me, say anything!"

Very slowly, Sherlock blinked his eyes open and was met with Molly cradling him in her lap and looking at him with the dearest eyes he had ever seen. He reached his hand up and brushed his shaking fingers across her cheek. Her skin felt so soft to him and a wave of comfort overcame his aching body, momentarily numbing the pain; "I'm sorry," was all he managed to say just before the darkness over took him once more.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" Molly cried, shaking him, "Come back to me! Sherlock! Wake up!" There was no response. He was just prone in her arms, completely still and out of it. She shook him again, but there still was no response. "Oh wake up, you bastard," she cried, her voice soft like a whisper, "Please don't do this to me." Molly hung head low and placed her forehead against his. She could feel the fever radiating off of Sherlock's skin as she held his body close. "Please don't do this," she said again, "Not here. Not now."

"Aw, is he out again?" Moriarty said with disappointment, "This isn't any fun, what with him going in and out like a faulty light bulb."

"Oh dear God," Kitty Riley breathed out from her place by the bathroom door. She was seated on the floor, her wounded shoulder wrapped up in a makeshift casting to help stop the bleeding, "Look at the poor man."

"Change of tune there, Ms. Riley," Moriarty taunted as he leaned in the doorway as if there wasn't a care in the world, "I thought you would say some witty comment about dear Mr. Holmes here. Then again, you two had quiet the chat during dinner."

"You heard that. Of course," she replied, rolling her eyes in annoyance.

"Well, I had to keep up with all the gossip," Moriarty said as he turned his gaze toward Molly again, "Lucky for you and your love, Molly," Moriarty said, shaking his head, "it seems that we have to take an unplanned intermission." His eyes then landed on the shivering figure at the far side of the room, "Mrs. Pierce, you look concerned. Is something the matter?" he taunted, "Not used to seeing someone in Sherlock's state, are we?"

Anna just shook her head, not in disagreement but in despair, as she looked to the floor. She held tightly to one of the bed posts and started chewing at the bit of skin on her left middle finger. She wasn't being held there by force; she just seemed to be planted there in fear.

"Leave her be," Kitty barked, going to the woman's side, "Haven't you done enough?"

"Never enough, honey," Moriarty chuckled, "I'm only just getting started."

"Wha-what have you done with my husband?" Anna Pierce finally spoke, her bottom lip quivering with every word.

"Oh! That's right, silly me," he taunted, rolling his eyes, "I almost forgot about that, Mrs. Pierce. Your husband is-hmm, how shall I put this? Indisposed? Yeah, that seems about right."

Curious, but also terrified, Anna slowly headed toward the living room. Moriarty merely glided to the side so to let the woman see the results of the scene that had just transpired there. Her eyes instantly landed on the still form of her husband, laying in a pool of blood. Anna let out a scream and ran to his side.

"GOD, NO!" she wailed, cupping his face in her shaking hands, "RICHARD! OH GOD!"

"You absolute monster," Kitty breathed out, glaring Moriarty right in the eyes, "what do you gain by this? Murdering an innocent man."

"Innocent? Hardly. Look what he did to our dear Sherlock?" Moriarty laughed, "He was a necessary loss. I always have a plan, never forget that." He then turned his attention to Molly once more; "Poor, little, sad Molly," he said, shaking his head, "You know, I honestly thought you could do so much better than Sherlock. You are far too good for him, you must know this."

Molly didn't reply. She had blocked out everything that was happening around her. Her sole focus was on the man in her arms, fighting for his life as she cradled him close. He look as though he were fast asleep, deeply relaxed and out of any pain. _'How could this have happened?' _she though as she stroked his curls, _'What are we doing here?' _She couldn't help but feel partially responsible for the state Sherlock was now in. After all, she had pushed him to keep working. Perhaps, John was right.

"Is he breathing?" came a voice through Molly's thoughts.

Molly lifted her head and turned her attention towards the speaker kneeling beside her: What had he said his name was? David, wasn't it?; "Y-yes," she managed to say, holding back her tears for the moment, "He's breathing."

"Good, that's a good sign," David replied, placing two fingers on Sherlock's neck, "There's a pulse, but his fever is far too high. That's why he's so out of it. Come now, help me guide him to the bath, cook him down a bit. We need to take a look at that arm and those cuts as well. Can you let go of him for just a moment? I promise you, it'll only be for a short time."

Surprised at how calm and reassuring this man was, Molly nodded and loosened her grip on Sherlock. David then took hold of him, tucking one arm under Sherlock's knees and the other under his arms. Surprising all those who was looking on with his strength, David lifted the limp man up into his arms and carried him toward the bathroom.

"What about Richard?!" cried Anna from the other room, "Will you help him too!?"

"Not much one can do for the dead, Former Mrs. Pierce," Moriarty said, heading for the main door, "Tell you what, I'll allow this small interval for this small gathering: let you all sit with your thoughts and such. Who knows maybe things will play out the way I want them to without me? Doubt it, but then again...who knows." He chuckled then motioned for his remaining men to follow him out. In mere moments, the guests were left alone in the state room:

Alone.

Confused.

Afraid.

"Doctor Hooper, I need your help!" David called from the bathroom after what felt like an eternity of silence. Not wasting another moment, Molly sprung up from where she was sitting and practically ran into the bathroom.

Sherlock was now propped up on the toilet with David keeping him upright and wrapping a towel around Sherlock's wounded bicep. Water was rushing from the faucet, slowly filling the tub. It was an old med trick, one that Molly had personally ever seen used once: a lukewarm bath can bring a person's fever down temporally. Did it really work? She wasn't sure, but at this moment she would take any method that would help Sherlock. Seeing him like this, a nearly senseless state, was too painful to bear.

"Does he have any medication?" David asked, breaking Molly from her thoughts.

"Um, yes, yes he does." she managed to reply, "He had them on him before we left for dinner."

Finishing up tying his makeshift cast around Sherlock's arm, David then began to check Sherlock's trouser pockets; "Lucky us, eh Sherlock?" he said mainly to himself as he pulled the small orange pill bottle from the left trouser pocket.

Sherlock just let out a deep groan and slumped forward, nearly falling onto the ground if it weren't for David's quick response.

"Whoa, whoa, alright," he said, catching the sickly man, "Stay with us, now, okay? No need to just give up." He then turned to Molly, "Can you manage to get him into the bath?" he asked, "That's just about enough water; he'll be fine."

Molly simply nodded and entered the room completely. She went over to where David was kneeling and took Sherlock into her arms once more. To the best of her ability, Molly stripped him down to just his pants then-with some help from David-carried Sherlock to the tub. Carefully, they set him down into the water, situating him so that he could lean back in a somewhat upright position.

"Alright, I will be right back," David said, handing Molly the pill bottle, "I'll assist the others for now and grab Sherlock some clean clothes as well. If he wakes up, trying to get him to take his meds. I know you can handle yourself, Dr. Hooper. Sherlock is in good hands." He then exited the room, leaving Molly alone with her thoughts.

Trying to keep her emotions at bay, Molly mentally stepped into the role of doctor and began to asses her patient. She placed her fingers on his neck to search for a pulse; she found one but it wasn't to her liking. Very carefully, Molly she kicked off her heels (she was still dressed like she was at dinner) and stepped into the tub, adjusting herself so to look Sherlock head on, and quickly started to examine his cuts. The very sight of them made her want to burst into tears, but she held it together. _'Focus, Molly, focus,'_ she told herself, _'He needs you. Help him.'_

Setting the pill bottle down, Molly grabbed a nearby hand towel, dabbed part of it with water, then began to clean Sherlock's cuts. They were mere scratches, some a tad deeper than others, but nothing to fret over. The one that worried her, though, was the stab wound on his arm. It wasn't bleeding profusely, but it obviously needed to be stitched up sooner rather than later.

"Your dress will be soaked," Sherlock breathed out, taking her completely by surprise. His eyes were open just about halfway and not entirely focused, but Molly still took it as a good sign: _'He's coherent,'_ she thought, _'That's a start.'_

"Hey," she sighed, cupping his face with her hands, "Stay with me, alright? Can you do that for me? Can you stay awake?"

A soft, half-mouth smile grew across his lips as he tilted his head into her palm; "Yeah," he sighed, his voice very distant and sluggish, "I believe I can manage that."

Molly smiled back and leaned forward a bit. She placed a soft kiss on Sherlock's forehead then moved her way down to kiss his lips. Sherlock, surprisingly, returned the gesture.

"I need you to take your medicine," Molly whispered when they parted.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in reply. He then lifted a shaking hand out of the water, palm up, and held it out to her. Molly picked up the bottle again and shook out a couple pills.

"These cuts," she said, placing them in his hand, "Do they hurt?"

"I've suffered worse," he replied, slowly popping the pills into his mouth, "I've jumped off a roof, remember?"

"Yes, but you didn't hit the ground," she pointed out, "and I was there to help you. I-I'm sorry I wasn't there now."

He chuckled, then, with some struggle, managed to swallow his medicine; "Don't," he sighed, sinking further down into the lukewarm water, "Don't put any blame on yourself."

"I was just on the other side of the door."

"Molly, please."

Seeing the genuine concern behind his gaze, Molly decided to drop the subject. That didn't mean she tucked away her guilt, though; she could've helped him. She knew that.

"Your arm," she said, resuming her care for his wounds, "Moriarty did that to you, didn't he?"

"No," Sherlock replied, "Pierce."

"Pierce? Anna's husband?" Molly asked, "But, why would he?"

"You know," Sherlock chuckled, "You were listening."

Molly looked up so to lock here eyes with his, a pink blush tinting her cheeks. Of course he knew she was listening from the other side of the door. "I fooled them," she said, "the men watching us. I sat curled up as close to the door as possible, hunched over, so they thought I was crying. I really had my ear pressed against the crack in door."

"My clever girl," Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes.

"Sherlock, what does it all mean?" she asked, "Moriarty has brought these people together because of you, but...why?"

"Why do psychopaths do anything, Molly?" he replied, "It's all for sport."

"Will he kill us?"

"Unpredictable."

"Will he kill you?"

Sherlock sighed and gave her hand a comforting squeeze, unable to speak an answer for her. As his features started to relax once more, Molly took note of how slow his breathing was becoming.

"Sherlock," Molly called out, gently tapping his cheek, "love, stay awake."

"Hmm," he hummed in reply, "Trying."

"Try harder."

Sherlock let out a small laugh; "Your bedside manner is...unique," he said, "Good thing you work with the dead."

"I just don't want you to just give up," she explained, "Please, don't give up. We can fight through this."

"Hmm, maybe John was right."

"How?"

"I think...this case may be my last."

Before Molly could ask him anything more, Sherlock slipped back into unconsciousness. She tried stirring him awake again, but it was of no use. Accepting defeat, Molly reached back and pulled the drain plug; they had been in the bath water long enough, she thought.

"Ms. Riley is attempting to comfort Mrs. Pierce," David said, reentering the bathroom with what appeared to be a pair of loose pants and a gray t-shirt, "Sorry I dug through your bags."

"It's fine," Molly said, "He was awake. He took his medicine and the fever seems to be under control, for now."

With a nod, David quickly came to her aide and helped Molly get Sherlock back on his feet. To Molly's surprise, David snatched up a towel (the last dry one in the bathroom, it seemed) and started to dry Sherlock off. He then guided them toward the toilet and gently placed Sherlock down to sit up on it again.

"Here," Molly said, taking the clothes from him, "I'll dress him." David nodded and turned away, allowing her to remove Sherlock's wet pants and dress him in his warmer, cleaner clothes. "You are very calm," Molly said, pulling Sherlock's shirt on over his head, "Are you a doctor?"

"In a way," he replied, kneeling beside the tub and checking Sherlock's breathing, "I used to run a rehab facility out in Milton Keynes, far from London and all those people running about."

"A rehab," she replied, "so...is that how you know Sherlock?"

"Pieced that together, did you?" he asked with a chuckle, "I guess it was bound to come out. Yes, I treated Sherlock back when he was a teen. Hadn't seen or spoken to him in years, obviously. That's why I was so surprised to see him walk into the dinning room; I had no idea what had happened to him since he left my care."

"He willingly left rehab?" Molly asked, bringing Sherlock to his feet again.

"No, no, he completed his treatment," David replied, helping her, "It wasn't an easy road, but-Well, Sherlock surprised me."

"How so?"

"When his brother brought him to my clinic, Sherlock was small and frail. He hadn't eaten in days and, according to his brother, had been living in some warehouse. For the first few weeks, he never spoke or left his room. Then, one day, he came into my office and just started talking. He told me about his school life, his skills, his ability to deduce anything from anyone. I was taken back, but at the same time intrigued. I had never met someone like this Sherlock Holmes.

He also proceeded to tell me that he didn't have a drug problem and that he could prove it to me. I saw him at his lowest and...and I honestly feared for his life. But then, he would bounce right back. When his treatment was finished, that 16 year-old boy simply walked out of the clinic and was on the next train back to London by midday."

"Sounds like Sherlock," Molly replied with a smile, "Determined."

"Indeed," David said. The two of them managed to guide Sherlock back into the bedroom and lay him atop the bed. "He'll sleep for a bit longer, I think," David went on, checking Sherlock's pulse, "When did he fall ill?"

"Almost a month ago now," Molly answered, sitting beside Sherlock, "The official diagnosis is Aplastic Anemia, but...well, I think it's developed into something more."

"It wouldn't be uncommon," David said, "And, I hate to say it Molly, but Sherlock's health record isn't the best."

"I know, I know," she agreed, turning her gaze to the man she loved. She gently began to stroke his curls off of his forehead, both for her own comfort and his.

"I'll clean up the bathroom," David said, gently patting her shoulder, "God knows when Moriarty will be back and you two need this moment."

Molly just nodded as she continued to look upon Sherlock's sleeping form. Her mind started to wander away from the now; she thought about where they would be if he hadn't taken this case. They'd be at Baker Street, away from any chaos and healing. Sherlock would be in the living room, fiddling with his violin or napping on the couch, while she'd be in the kitchen or by the fireside reading a book. Life would be simpler and calmer, a rarity for them, but a cherished one at that.

"What have we done, Sherlock?" Molly whispered, leaning forward and kissing his cheek, "What are we doing here?"

"Horrible man, that Moriarty," Kitty said as she and Anna walked back into the bedroom, "What are we to do now?"

"What can we do?" Anna cried, "That man will kill us!"

"You know what? We escape," Kitty replied, "Come on, we have a genius in our company. Surely we can make a plan!"

"And where would we go? We're in the middle of the North Atlantic," Molly said, surprising both women, "You're wounded, Anna's in shock and Sherlock...Sherlock is too ill to go anywhere. Moriarty won't kill us, not yet at least...I don't think."

"Wouldn't he just," Kitty replied with a laugh, "What kind of sick, delusional word do you live in, Dr. Hooper? Moriarty is a mad man! Look what he did to Sherlock!"

"Sherlock's been...been ill for awhile," Molly said, rising from the bed, "I'm not trying to make excuses or anything-"

"It sure as hell sounds like you are," Anna snapped, "He killed my husband!"

"Molly's right," David said, reemerging from the bathroom, "Moriarty has a plan; he's no idiot, that much is clear. Mad? Yes. Stupid? Definitely not. We are in the middle of nowhere, unable to get in contact with anyone back home since his men took our phones, and weak."

"You think we should just put up with this then?" Kitty snapped, "I promise you, sir, I will not die a captive!"

"That is what you are, Ms. Riley!" he replied, "Do you think they shot you just for kicks?"

"So we stay prisoners," Anna said, crying once more, "Wait this out for-for God knows how long."

"No! No, I won't just give in!" Kitty barked, "I'm not waiting for the inevitable! The man doesn't even want us here; you all heard him! This is all about Sherlock! I say we use him."

"What? Bargain his life for ours?" David asked, shaking his head, "You'd trade a sick man's life just to possibly save yourself?"

"Survival of the fittest," Kitty coldly replied, "and it is damn obvious who of us is the weakest link."

"Only physically, Kitty, I assure you."

All of the passengers turned their attention toward Sherlock, who was slowly situating himself into a standing position. Molly reached out to help him and he accepted gratefully. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders while she held him up by his waist.

"You're awake," Kitty said

"See? You're proving my point," Sherlock said with a smirk, "Stating the obvious." He then turned his attention to Anna, who was gazing at him with a look of pure hatred; "Your husband did not deserve to die," he said, clearing his throat, "He was being used, like we all are."

"Then why aren't we doing something about it?" Kitty continued to push, "Come on, detective, surely you must have a plan to get out of this!"

"I don't," Sherlock admitted, "but I trust that someone will come up with one." he turned his gaze toward Molly, who just looked back at him in utter confusion.

"Me?" she asked, "But, Sherlock, I-I don't even know what's going on here! Truly!"

"Doesn't matter," he replied, slightly loosing his footing. Molly quickly reacted and gently guided him to sit back down the bed. Breathing a little heavier than before, Sherlock pressed on: "You've saved me before, Molly. You can save these people as well."

"How? I don't even know-"

"You'll find the right moment, I know you will."

"And you? What about you?"

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh then cupped her face in his hands: "I have to finish my work, Molly," he said plainly, "No matter what, I have to finish this."

"What do you mean?" she whispered.

"I think you already know." he replied, running his thumbs across her cheeks.

Before Molly could replied, the front door to the cabin banged open. Within seconds, Moriarty and his men had entered the bedroom and taken over the room once more. Two men snatched Sherlock by the arms and practically dragged him over to where Moriarty now stood beside the bedroom door.

"Well, how was the interval?" he taunted, running a finger across Sherlock's cheek, "You seem more...alert."

"I'm sure you are going to amend that," Sherlock replied.

"Maybe," Moriarty sang. He then waltzed over to where David was standing and wrapped an arm around the man's tense shoulders. Surprisingly, David did not fight it. "Well, Doctor Peterson," the consulting criminal said with a smile, "how about you regale Sherlock and I with your tales from that clinic of yours? You remember, don't you Sherlock? Or are the drugged out days all a blur to you now?"

Neither Sherlock nor David replied as they were both dragged into the living room. Just before the door was shut, Sherlock and Molly made eye contact for a short moment. He simply nodded to her as if to reiterate what he had told her. She could only nod back, wordlessly telling him that she trusted him.

'_I'll save you Sherlock,' _she said to herself, _'I promise you.'_

_**Hope you all enjoyed this update. It's a long one and a lot to take in. Let me know what you all think as your responses are always appreciated. I'll see you all soon, I hope. That is if life doesn't get in the way :)  
Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	22. Chapter 21: To Sleep Perchance To Dream

_**Chapter 21: To Sleep Perchance To Dream**_

"You have to stay awake now, alright? No matter how badly you want to black out."

"Hmm."

"Sherlock, can you hear me? You have to stay with us. Don't give up, alright? You need to stay awake."

Sherlock turned his heavy head toward David, locking his hazy eyes with the doctor's, and slowly tried to process the words being spoken to him. He was more awake and aware then he was moments ago but the world around him was still being seen through a fog. The pain and the fever were simply numbed at this point; whether it was from his medication or the elements of his illness canceling each other out, he wasn't sure. This probably was the first time in his life he wasn't fully sure of anything.

He was back in the living room area, now on his knees, hands tied behind his back, instead of hanging from the ceiling by his wrists. Moriarty was speaking to his men, but, at this point, Sherlock could only hear white noise coming from the man's mouth. He was unphased by this danger, unmoved by the potentially life-threatening situation he had found himself in at the moment. He knew where this was all going to head, the dark road that he was being guided down. Moriarty was breaking him, as much as Sherlock hated to admit it to himself.

The end of this game was becoming more and more clear by the second.

"Can you feel anything?" David asked in a hushed tone from his spot beside Sherlock (he too was on his knees with his hands tied behind his back), "Do you know where you are?"

"If the point of these questions is that you are trying to ask me if I'm lucid, then yes, I am." Sherlock replied, clearing his throat, "For the most part."

"Well, there's the infamous Holmes' attitude," David said with a light chuckle, "And you are speaking in full sentences again; No more long pauses to catch your breath."

"Or to let the words come to mind," Sherlock added, "My greatest tool seems to be failing me."

"Oh, I doubt that," David said, "Your mind is above and beyond anything I've ever come across."

"You work in a rehabilitation center. The minds you witness are faulted and muddled with mistakes."

"You were once one of them. Just because you now go by another name, doesn't mean your past is completely erased. You are still William Holmes."

"Spare me your speeches, Doctor. I'm no longer your patient."

David let out a heavy sigh and looked around the room: "Madness, huh?" he said, keeping an eye on Moriarty and his men conversing in the kitchen, "What do you think they are doing in there?"

"Concocting some new way to torture me," Sherlock answered, plainly, "Dull."

"Huh," David chuckled, "I think you are the only person I know who finds the idea of torture dull."

Sherlock just shrugged; "In my line of work, I've been shot, stabbed, whipped, choked, beaten to the point of unconsciousness," he said, "I think it's safe to say torture no longer has an effect on me."

"Why do you think Moriarty continues to do this to you then?" David asked.

"Moriarty is an enigma: an unbreakable, frustrating enigma," Sherlock said, "I much as I loathe to admit it, I can't read him. "

David simply nodded then turned his gaze so to look at Sherlock; "So, tell me, in all honesty," he said, "Are you alright?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock grunted.

"You heard me. Are you alright?"

Sherlock just looked at him, completely speechless. This wasn't from shock or confusion. He simply did not have an answer for that question. It was is he was being asked the meaning of life; an impossible riddle that couldn't be solved in just one smart answer.

Was he alright? That was the question: so simple to understand but yet so hard to answer. Physically, he obviously wasn't alright. His torso was littered with cuts and he more or less certain the wound on his shoulder needed to be stitched up. Not to mention that infernal illness poising his entire body with every passing second. Mentally, that was a whole other situation.

Part of him wanted to fight this: the pain, the threat of Moriarty. The other part of him simply just wanted it all to end. If this was all over, there wouldn't be a need to fight. It would all be over and done with: the pain forever dulled, Moriarty gone from his life for good. Most importantly, Sherlock thought, Molly would be safe; maybe not forever but at least Moriarty wouldn't use her in any way. If he was gone, then Moriarty would be out of her life. It pained him to think of the future in that way, but Sherlock knew in his heart that it was the only reality in which Molly could be safe. It wasn't just for her either.

It was for John.

It was for Mary.

It was for Harper.

It was for Lestrade.

It was for .

It was for everyone.

Once again, to protect the ones he loved, Sherlock had to end it all.

"Well, ladies, have we had enough chatter?" Moriarty said, practically skipping toward Sherlock and David, "You do know that that is what the interval was for, yes? To get all the chit-chat out so that you don't talk during the second half of the performance."

"Is that all this is to you? A show?" David asked in a challenging tone, "Playing with people's lives are all part of your act?"

"Theatrics are his specialty," Sherlock said,solemnly, "Without dramatic flair, he's just another common criminal."

"Oh ho, I am far more than common, Sherlock," Moriarty replied, going behind Sherlock, "You, more than any one in the world, know that." The consulting criminal then cut Sherlock's bindings, but, surprisingly Sherlock didn't move. Moriarty then walked around him then leaned down so that he was eye level with Sherlock. Their faces were mere inches apart and the tension was so thick that everyone in the room was on edge. What was going to happen? Where could they go from here?

"Just as I suspected," Moriarty whispered, tilting his head just an inch to the left, "You've given up."

"Hardly," Sherlock rebutted.

"No, no, don't lie. Not to me," Moriarty said, "I can see it in your eyes. You don't want to fight any more. I haven't broken you, per say, but that is only because you were already broken." He then shot his hand up and gripped Sherlock's jaw, squeezing the man's cheeks tightly. "This illness, the one ripping you apart from the inside, that was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back, wasn't it?" he went on, "Your diagnoses was your downfall. You knew it was fatal long before your dear old Doctor Watson told you so. God, Sherlock Holmes, I hate to admit it, but you really have beaten me to the punch this time. I wanted to watch you break and suffer, but you were already doing that long before you stepped foot in William Carson's office."

"You knew," Sherlock hissed between his teeth, "you said so out on the deck. You knew I was dying."

"But you are Sherlock Holmes! Don't you get it!?" Moriarty barked, "You fight back! You always fight back!" He then took hold of the collar of Sherlock's shirt and lifted him up to his feet; "You were supposed to be a challenge! My greatest challenge!" he sneered, "Now, you are just like all the rest: weak, worthless, nothing. I'm going to end you, Sherlock, count on that."

"Looking forward to it." Sherlock replied, keeping his gaze strong.

With an annoyed grunt, Moriarty tossed Sherlock onto the couch as if he were nothing. "Keep him down." he snapped at his men in the kitchen.

Doing as they were told without question,the men instantly ran in, pinning Sherlock down on his back by gripping tightly to his shoulders and ankles. All Sherlock could do was stare blankly up at the ceiling, his mind millions of miles away.

"I'm done playing with you," Moriarty continued, undoing his belt. He then turned his attention to David; "Doctor, you seem tense. Is it the belt? Am I giving your nightmare-ish ideas? Ha! I assure you I have nothing of that nature in mind; Sherlock isn't my type."

"Haven't you put this man through enough?" David said, attempting to defend Sherlock, "He is battered and bruised and-"

"Barely alive. I am aware of the obvious," Moriarty said, pulling David up by the arm, "But that doesn't change my plans." A sly smile then grew across his lips as he locked eyes with the worried doctor: "You should know that you have inspired this next part of my plan. "

"You say that as if I should be proud." David said under his breath, but loud enough for Moriarty to hear.

"Don't be such a spoil sport," Moriarty went on, going behind David and undoing the doctor's ties before handing off to one of the other men; "We're going to be talking about your procedures, Doctor," he said, replacing the man who was at Sherlock's shoulder's, "Particularly, your course of action with Sherlock."

"This again," Sherlock sighed, still keeping his eyes on the ceiling, "Another twisted trip down memory lane? Dull."

With a roll of his eyes, Moriarty turned his attention back to Sherlock. He rose to his feet and walked over to the couch; "For once in your life Sherlock," he sneered, glaring down at the man, "shut up. You've interrupted my monologue. You know how I like my scenes." He then pulled out a long, thin, black case out of his suit jacket. "I was saving this for another moment, but, well, no time like the present." he taunted, opening the box and taking out a thin, hypodermic needle, filled with a strange, almost cream colored liquid, "Do you remember these, Sherlock?" he went on in a whisper, "Your old, silver friends."

"My drug usage is not something I hide or shy away from" Sherlock said, solemnly, "If you are trying to get at me through that, it'll be in vain."

"You misunderstand me," Moriarty said, kneeling down so to be eye level with Sherlock, "I'm not going to guilt trip you about your...hobby. I'm going to help it along." Before Sherlock could even inquire the meaning behind that statement, Moriarty took hold of Sherlock's arm and quickly tightened his belt around the bicep.

"Are you insane?" David barked, struggling in his captor's hold, "He's already on medication! Mixing anything else in his system..."

"What? Kill him?" Moriarty said with a laugh, "I think Sherlock is already on that path. What's the harm in me pushing that train along a bit?" "This should all seem very familiar to you, Doctor," Moriarty said, "Let's see: there's your patient, a couch, you. Hmm, maybe I should get a note pad or something?"

"What are you going on about?" David asked.

"Don't you see it? Either of you? I've recreated your past," Moriarty said with an all too proud smile, "You therapy sessions with Sherlock! Right now, our dear little addict is about to go into deep relaxation due to this lovely cocktail of drugs my boys wiped up. You'll be awake, Sherlock, but not all there, as it were. You'll be able to respond to us, but the deeper you go...Well, we might loose you to your mind. Ringing any bells yet, Doctor?"

David furrowed his brow, but then the realization hit him; "It's called narco-hypnosis," he said, looking at Sherlock in disappointment, "A form of hypnosis induced by narcotics. I use...I use it with some of my patients."

"And, who was your most successful case by using this method?" Moriarty pushed, "Say it out loud. Make me happy."

"Sherlock," David said, "It was the only form of treatment that-Look, I know the idea is ridiculous-"

"You were in my head," Sherlock said, a tiny bit of hurt in his tone, "I-I don't have a full memory of it all, but...I remember your voice. Asking me questions about my personal life and I had to answer. I couldn't not answer."

"Sherlock, listen to me," David said, "I promise you I never asked you anything that wasn't part of your treatment. I would never impede on a patient's private life."  
"Of course you did," Moriarty said with a laugh, "How else would you have had all that information in Sherlock's file about Richard Pierce? Oops! Did I just give away my source?" He then looked back at Sherlock with that serious, dead eyes gaze that had come to haunt the detective's dreams: "He told me all about you, Sherlock," he said, "Your childhood bully, the drugs, the sadness, the loneliness you felt. All you dark secrets were right there in a simple, hand-written file."

Sherlock then turned his body to look at David. There was anger in his gaze, he didn't even try to hide it; "You," he said, more as a cold, hard fact then a question, "You are the reason I'm here."

"Oh, don't go that far," Moriarty said, patting Sherlock's shoulder, "This was my grand plan. David just provided all the right tools."

The doctor just looked at his former patient with an expression that could be described as horrified and embarrassed. He had be caught, red handed, and now was going to face the consequences; "Sherlock," he tried to defend himself, "Those-Your file...I-I should've given it over to your brother the moment you checked out of rehab. How was I to know that this madman would find me all these years later, demanding to see it? Sherlock, he-he was going to kill my family!"

"You told him everything I ever told you," Sherlock said, his expression now cold and unfeeling, "You took information out of my mind and then traded it all over to him. For what? Safety? Yes, I see now how well that worked out for you."

"Sherlock, please, I-I had no choice."

"Please. I've heard that excuse from many a criminal in my line of work."

"I'm not a criminal."

"No, you're just siding with Moriarty because it seemed like a smart move."

"Oh there's the Holmes wit I've only seen bits of during this venture! I was waiting for it," Moriarty taunted, "Well, this bit of dialogue has been fun, gentlemen, but shall we move forward?" As soon as he finished those words, Moriarty then stuck the needle into a prominent, blue vein just above Sherlock's elbow crease and pushed down on the plunger, releasing the cloudy liquid into Sherlock's body.

Instantly, and taking him very much by surprise, Sherlock felt a wave of numbness come over his body. This was unlike any other high he had experienced. What had Moriarty given him?Nothing was making sense; it was if a thick fog was quickly encasing his mind and blocking everything. This drug-or drugs, for all he knew-was sending him down deeper than before, almost too deep. It was if all reality was fading away into a kaleidoscopic world of blending colors and deafening sounds. In a way...it was relaxing. The pain was leaving him, slowly but surely, and he honestly wasn't opposed to that. Perhaps this was that escape he had been longing for: an odd blessing in a twisted surprise.

No, this wasn't good. There was absolutely nothing good about anything happening at this moment. And yet, Sherlock didn't care. As his vision blurred, Sherlock let out a deep breath breath and relaxed all of his muscles, as if he were going to drift off to sleep; he honestly couldn't tell at this point if this was drug causing this or his own free will. For the first time in months, Sherlock felt at peace. Was this Moriarty's point? Make him so weak that he couldn't defend himself? He didn't know.

For once, Sherlock Holmes didn't know.

"There we go," Moriarty practically cooed, pulling out the needle and quickly replacing it with a new one, this one he pushed in a little further, "isn't that nice, Sherlock? To just sleep, slip away from this mess; What's the point of fighting?"

Sherlock attempted to speak but it seemed the power of speech was foreign to him now. His eyes began to wander as the last bits of reality slipped away from him. There were voices, familiar but nothing coherent, coming from deep within his mind. They sounded so welcoming and soothing. He trusted them: the voices in his head. Good Lord, what was happening to his mind?

"What was that, Sherlock?" Moriarty continued to taunt, "More?"

"Mmm," Sherlock managed to sigh, a mindless smirk growing across his lips as his eyes finally closed all the way.

"What did you give him?" David barked, rushing to Sherlock's side, "This reaction isn't right! Something's wrong." He pushed Moriarty away, but surprisingly the criminal mastermind did not retaliate. He just let the sad event unfold.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" David asked, cupping the detective's face in his hands.

"Mhm," was the only response Sherlock seemed capable to give at the moment. He could hear David, but he didn't want to open his eye. He was too lost within himself, wandering aimlessly in his mind palace. These were not the normally organized hallways he often escaped to, though. No, this was a much darker place. One that seemed to be completely separate from truth; an alternate reality, twisted and brought about by the foreign substance rushing though his blood stream.

And yet those voices seemed to be keeping him from slipping away any further. There were not speaking to him, per say, but he knew the conversation they were having._ 'A memory! Of course!' _he muddled brain managed to figure out. He knew those voices: one was his own and the other was his, of course, his guiding light. The one person who could pull him out. This memory was his reminder, his reason not give into the complete bliss of the drugs, no matter how wonderful the sensation made him feel.

Fully delving in now, Sherlock allowed himself to escape into that welcoming dream, a memory he vowed to never forget:

"_Sherlock! I-I saw it on the telly at work! Tell me it's not true!"_

_Sherlock could hear the tears in voice through the receiving end of the phone. Oh, how he wished he was holding her now instead of stuck in his flat, but he had to work. The work was so he could keep her safe, keep everyone safe. He had to work. "Where are you?" he asked, ignoring her question for the time being, "Are you still at the morgue?"_

"_Yes, yes, I'm in my office. Where are you? Are you alright?"_

"_Baker Street with John and Mary. Listen to me carefully, Molly. Mycroft is on his way to come and collect you. He'll explain everything to you while you are on your way here. Stay in your office until he comes to retrieve you. Open the door for no one but him, do you understand?"_

"_Sherlock, what is going on?"_

"_Please, will you do this?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Good. I'll see you shortly."_

_He could hear her quick footsteps coming up the stairs no more than 20 minutes later. How Mycroft had made such time in getting her, God only knew. Sherlock instantly went to meet her at the top of the stairs, despite the nagging from the Watsons to lay down and recuperate for a bit; he had just overdosed not long ago. But that wasn't important. He was sober (for the most part) now and he needed to get Molly._

_Molly was important._

_The second he stepped out on the landing, Sherlock was met with a tight embrace from Molly Hooper. He held her in return, cradling her head on his shoulder and allowing her tears to just flow freely. He was certain Mycroft, who had followed her up, was saying something witty and annoying at the moment, but Sherlock blocked everything out. All he needed to focus on was her: she was safe. She was here._

"_Shh," Sherlock cooed, rubbing his hand up and down Molly's back, "It's going to be alright. I'm here now."_

"_You...you were going to leave without saying good-bye," she sobbed, "And...and now he's...that man-Sherlock, I thought he was dead!"_

"_Shh, Molly, Molly, it's alright."_

"_It's not alright! Sherlock, I'm-I'm frightened!"_

"_Don't be," he said, suddenly letting her go so to look her in the eyes. He placed his hands on her shoulders and continued in the most sincere tone he could muster at the moment: "You listen to me, Molly Hooper, and please listen well. I am not going to let anything happen to you. You are going to stay here at Baker Street, with me, and I am not letting you out of my sight. Moriarty won't make the same mistake again; he will be looking for you. But you have nothing to fear, alright? I am right beside you and I won't leave you."_

"_Sherlock, what-what is this?" she asked, taking his hands into hers, "One second you're about to leave England forever and now-"_

"_Now, I'm focused on the present and that is all that matters," he said, giving her hands a comforting squeeze, "I should've told you about me leaving and all of that. I do apologize, but I didn't want to say goodbye. I didn't want to say goodbye...because I don't ever want to say goodbye to you. I need you in my life, Molly Hooper. I'll always need you."_

_The look on her face could only be described as shocked. "What-what are you saying?" she managed to say in a whisper, "Sherlock are-are you high? Your brother mentioned it in the car, but I didn't want to believe isn't like you."_

"_Don't I know it," he replied with a smirk, "Molly, I'm not high. My mind has never been more clear than in this moment, right now." He then moved his hands up to gently cup her face; "My dearest Molly Hooper, allow me to say this before the moment passes. I want to protect you, be by your side to watch over you while this chaos subsides. And when I've solved it-and I promise you I will-I hope that you will stay with me because I can not stand the thought of being without you. _

_I love you. Yes, I love you. There I have said it. I don't know if you'll believe, but it is the truth. You are always in my mind and I have been fighting for too long to keep those feelings at bay. Please, know that I-"_

"_Sherlock stop."_

"_No, Molly, I can't. I need to say this. I owe you that much."_

"_No. Stop so you can kiss me."_

_Instantly, Sherlock leaned forward and brought his lips crashing down upon hers in a passionate kiss. She returned the gesture with just as much force, draping her arms around his shoulders. They forgot about everything around them and they didn't care. This was right. This is what mattered._

"_We can work out the details of all this later," Molly whispered when they parted, "You have a lot of explaining, Sherlock."_

"_I know, I know," he replied, nuzzling his forehead against her's, "I'll tell you everything."_

_Molly let out a small giggle as she stole another kiss; "Most people start their relationships with a date, not living together while a criminal mastermind is chasing them."_

"_We're not most people, Molly."_

"_No, I guess we're not."  
_

"Molly," Sherlock breathed out, the memory fading back into the depths of his clouded mind. He couldn't keep dwelling on it; his mind was slipping, he could feel himself loosing control.

Suddenly, there was a hand on his cheek. A soft and welcoming hand that gently brushed against his warm skin, bringing him back to reality for a few moments.

"I'm right here," Molly whispered, stroking his cheek again as Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, "I've got you."

Sherlock looked around, utterly confused by the scene around him. Out of the corner of his hazy gaze, he took note of an unconscious Moriarty lying face down on the floor, a fresh cut bleeding across his forehead. The two henchmen were in the same position but over by the bedroom door with a very shocked David tied up nearby. What had happened? How long was he out for? Sherlock simply could wrap his head around anything. The only fact he knew for certain was that Molly was here and she was safe.

She was leaning over him, panting and wide eyed. She looked as if she had been in a fight what with her dress slightly torn and a small cut now adorned her lower lip. But Molly wouldn't have fought anyone, would she? Sherlock was positive he would have heard the commotion despite his trance like state. He rose a shaking hand up to touch her cut, but Molly quickly took hold of it.

"No need to worry about that. I'm alright," she assured him, "Right now, we need to move. I doubt they'll be out for long."

"Don't know about that. I hit him pretty hard," Kitty said, entering from the bedroom with a couple of coats (Sherlock's being one of them) in one hand and a bathroom rod in the other, "Is he awake?"  
"For the most part," Molly replied, taking the coat from her and draping it around Sherlock, "I've never seen him this out of it before." She then turned her attention back to the barely awake man before her; "Don't scare me like that again," she whispered, guiding his arms into the sleeves, "Please."

Sherlock couldn't speak. His mind was still so hazy and he was too overwhelmed to try and speak.

"You shouldn't move him," David said, in a shaking voice, "The drugs-"

"Shut up," Anna hissed, coming in from behind Kitty, "Don't try and help. We heard all of it and you are just as guilty as Moriarty!"

"Anna, please, not now." Molly warned, slowly (but surely) bringing Sherlock to his feet, "Sherlock, love, are you with me? Do you feel like you can walk?"

Sherlock just closed his eyes again and leaned to his side, resting his head on Molly's shoulder.

"Sherlock, please, say something," she tried again, gently tapping Sherlock's cheek, "Don't do this. Don't shut me out."

"Mmm, okay," Sherlock sluggishly responded, lolling his head about as if it weren't completely attached anymore.

"He's out of it," Anna said, coming to Molly's aide, "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"It's our only idea," Molly replied. She then nuzzled her forehead against Sherlock's and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. "I held up my part. I found us a way out," she said to him, even though she knew he had slipped back into his drug induced stupor, "Now, don't give up on us. Stay with me, Sherlock."

"Let's go," Anna whispered, opening the front door, "before they wake up."

"You're can't leave me!?" David begged, "Please!"

Without a second thought, the three women and Sherlock left the stateroom and rushed as far away as possible. In all honesty, they had no real destination. There was just one goal in mind: get out.

_**Hello, Hello, Hello. Hope you all enjoyed this update. It was a long one and a bit out there, but I thought this was the best it was going to get. :) I will be explaining what happened while Sherlock was "out" I promise; I'm not going to leave it all a mystery. I know this was a lot of information to take in and I hope it all made sense. Please, as always, let me know what you think. I do love hearing from you guys. My only wish is that I could update more; sometimes life just gets in the way.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	23. Chapter 22: In The Room

_**Chapter 22: In the Room**_

_Hello all! _

_Yes, I usually add these notes at the end but it felt fitting that I put it at the top this time. This chapter takes place at the same time as the last; my plan was to do a continuation, but it wasn't working well. I worked really hard on this-a huge bought of writer's block hit me like the plague-and I attempted to make a good connection. So, this is what I decided to put out for you guys. I really hope you enjoy it. Your words do help me._

"Molly, what did he mean by that?" Anna said a few minutes after the bedroom door slammed shut, leaving the three women alone and confused, "Finish his work? Did-did he mean he was going to finish Moriarty? Will he kill him?"

"Doubt it," Kitty said with a roll of her eyes, "I think that was Sherlock Holmes' way of saying _'Fend for yourselves, ladies. I have to go my own way'." _

"Wait, he's giving up?" Anna asked, tears welling up in her eyes again, "That's just...He can't just...Bollocks!"

"Oh ho, the sweet and innocent one has a mouth on her," Kitty chuckled, "That is surprising."

"No! No, I-I mean...God!" she stammered, "He can't just leave us by ourselves with no plan! Isn't he supposed to be the genius here?"

"Yes. He's the genius with an ego the size of the sun," Kitty went on, "He's too into himself to even consider saving us. Look what happened to your husband, Anna? Still as charming as ever, that man. That really is some knight in shining armor you've managed to snag, Molly Hooper."

"That wasn't Sherlock's fault," Molly whispered, finally speaking up, "If you had been listening, you would know that."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I was too preoccupied with not getting shot again!" Kitty snapped.

The pathologist didn't reply. She was in her own mind, blocking out everything around her, very much in the same way Sherlock did when he was on a case. _'Come on, think,'_ she could practically hear him saying to her, _'What would I do, Molly? What would I do?' _Molly took a deep breath and walked over to the door, resuming the same position she was in when she was listening in before.

"Now what are you doing?" Kitty continued to push, "Christ! This whole situation has gone from bad to worse!"

"Well, maybe if you stop shouting and actually do something, we might have a chance!" Anna suddenly inputted, "That's what Molly's doing: she's trying to find a way out of here!"

"Oh so now you are on their side?" Kitty asked, "A moment ago, you were saying Sherlock was full of-"

"I am no one's side! I just want to get out of here and Molly is the only one working toward that goal!"  
"She looks like she's just sitting there to me."

"God, are you always so negative?!"

"Shh!" Molly suddenly hushed both of them, waving her hand in the air almost like a conductor silencing an orchestra.

"Excuse me?!" Kitty gasped, "How dare-What gives you.."

"Shut up," Anna added, kneeling down beside Molly, "What is it, Molly? Do you hear something?"

"Unbelievable." Kitty muttered as she turned around to sit on the bed.

"Well, have you got a better idea?" Anna challenged.

Molly had tuned out their argument. She was trying to focus; she needed to listen in for both their sake's and Sherlock's. She wasn't going to pass up another chance to save him from Moriarty.

She could hear some mumbling, most likely Moriarty and his men. She couldn't pick out Sherlock's soothing baritone and she was certain that, even in his frail state, she would be able to identify his words in an instant. _'Don't think about just me,'_ she heard him say in her thoughts, _'Take in what the others are saying. You can't make bricks without clay.'_

After a few moments, Molly could hear Sherlock and Moriarty conversing:

"_You've given up."_

"_Hardly,"_

"_No, no, don't lie. Not to me,"_

Sherlock sounded so strong, pushing his fatigue aside so not to break in front of his enemy. In a way, she was proud of him; keeping up the fight even though his strength was deteriorating.

As their conversation continued, Molly couldn't help but feel that small sense of pride grow. Sherlock had listening to her: he was fighting back. He was keeping it all together and that was angering Moriarty. That man wanted to see a sick and dying Sherlock Holmes, but that simply wasn't the case.

"_Do you remember these, Sherlock? Your old, silver friends."_

That phrase caught her attention. Molly furrowed her brow and reached up, opening the door just a sliver. Thankfully, the door didn't make any noise or, if it did, the men in the living room didn't take note of it.

"Molly," Anna said, setting a hand on Molly's shoulder, "what are you doing? Close the door."

"I-I can't," Molly whispered, "He...needs me."

Very carefully, Molly peeked out of the crack and, instantly, her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach as she set her eyes on the needle Moriarty was twirling in between his fingers. '_No. Not this.'_ she thought as she covered her mouth, _'Sherlock, no.'_

The drugs were something she knew Sherlock had no control over, ill state or not. And yet, the threat was right in front of him and he couldn't fight it, even if he wanted to try. There he was, her Sherlock, lying on the couch with Moriarty hovering over him, a needle just about to be punctured into his arm. His eyes were unfocused and all color was drained from his face. He was lost, that much was clear to Molly. She needed to step in, but she was too afraid. Not for Sherlock's sake, but she had this nagging feeling that she was going to make it worst. She then listened in for the next bit of information, ready to make her right move.

"_...Right now, our dear little addict is about to go into deep relaxation due to this lovely cocktail of drugs my boys wiped up. You'll be awake, Sherlock, but not all there, as it were. You'll be able to respond to us, but the deeper you go...Well, we might loose you to your mind."_

"Loose him to his mind," she muttered, "What does that even mean?"

"What is it? What did he say?" Anna said, looking out as well, "Is that-Oh God, we need to stop him."

Molly shook her head: "No, no, Moriarty will-"

"Not Moriarty." Anna quickly said, "David."

Molly furrowed her brow and turned her attention to Anna: "David?" she asked, closing the door a bit (still, surprisingly, not drawing any attention from the occupants of the other room), "What are you talking about?"

"I should've said something," Anna muttered, looking down at her lap, "The moment I saw him at dinner."

"Ooo, is the plot thickening?" Kitty teased, suddenly becoming interested, "Do tell."

"Anna," Molly asked, "What are you talking about?"

"David. He...he's a rehabilitation doctor," Anna explained, tears developing in her eyes, "I know you know that. I-I heard him tell you. And he was...Sherlock's and my doctor."

"You?" Molly asked, her eyes growing wide, "You were in rehab too?"

Anna nodded; "At the same time as Sherlock, actually," she went on, "But he went by another name then."

"Another name?" Kitty asked, "What? Is Sherlock not his real name?"

"It's one of his middle names." Molly replied, "William Sherlock Scott is the whole of it."

"Wait, wait, wait...his name isn't Sherlock?" Kitty kept pushing, "Really?"

"I don't think that's the point," Molly said, rolling her eyes, "Go on, Anna."

"Yes! That was it. I knew him as William, or Will, actually." Anna said, "Anyway, we-Well, he and I often saw each other at the clinic. He would be leaving David's office just when I was going in, we shared a mutual smoking spot, that sort of thing. He was the only one who, well, understood me. Odd, I know, but it's the truth. He could see me. When he spoke, which wasn't a lot at that time, he would say things that just made you feel as if...as if..."

"As if you were the only person that mattered." Molly said as a sentimental smile grew across her lips," You were his focus. He liked you."

Anna lifted her eyes to meet Molly's, looking very nervous all of a sudden: "We weren't a couple." she stated, "Not even in the least bit."

"Oh! Um, alright," Molly replied, feeling a bit warm suddenly, "It makes no difference to me. It was a long time ago but, well, from what you're telling me, it sounds like he really liked you. He doesn't open up to just anyone."

"I-I liked him too. I trusted him." Anna muttered, looking down again, "Will and I-I mean, Sherlock and I were close. Not like best friends or anything, but close enough that we shared stories; We told each other who we were pre-rehab and all that. We had a similar story; well off families, highly successful older siblings, the whole lot."

"Ooo," Kitty teased, "Sounds as if you were peas in a pod."

"Yes, well, sure. I guess." Anna stammered, "Anyway, Will...Sorry, Sherlock had an appointment with David everyday just before mine. Like I said, we would bump into each other outside the office all the time. So, one afternoon, I show up for my four o'clock and the door is shut. It was never shut when I got there; Will would either be exiting or David would have it open and be waiting for me. This day, I could feel that something wasn't right, you know? It was in my gut.

I went to the door and opened it just a bit. I instantly saw Will...Sherlock sprawled out on the couch, eyes closed and twitching as if he just got the best hit of his life. David was kneeling beside him, whispering things and making him say these things that just-Well, he didn't sound like himself. It was if Will couldn't help himself; he was so high that he had no control. I-I saw a needle in David's hand. I don't know what he was doing, but Will was completely gone.

When David finally noticed me, he shooed me out of the room and kept saying _'Your appointment's canceled for today. I'll see you tomorrow.' _I was petrified; there was such a dark and menacing look in his eyes. When I asked Will...Sherlock about it later, at our smoking spot, he looked at me as if I was insane. He didn't know what I was talking about! He absolutely had no clue! He was so high that the entire therapy session was out of his memory. I don't know what David did, but...but he changed Will."

"You mean Sherlock," Kitty teased, "You've corrected yourself every time. Maybe missed one Will in there."

"Oh! Enough, Ms. Riley!" Molly snapped, "This woman has opened to us and-Wait. David? David did...what?"

"That's the thing! I don't really know." Anna said, "I-I wish I did. Maybe I could help him now."

Suddenly, Molly heard a string of grunts and groans very clearly coming from Sherlock in the other room. Forgetting all about the conversation, Molly put all her attention toward the door once more. She opened it a crack again and peered out. Her eyes instantly landed on Sherlock and she had to cover her mouth to quite her gasp.

His skin was gray and his eyes were slowly closing. He looked more ill then he had in weeks; sweat drenched forehead, twitching fingers, body twisted in discomfort. In short, Sherlock Holmes looked like he was about to fall apart at any moment. Molly had never seen him like this and it frightened her. She could see that he was loosing him, slowly and surely.

"_There we go, isn't that nice, Sherlock? To just sleep, slip away from this mess; What's the point of fighting?"_

"Sherlock, no," Molly cried, holding back her flood of tears as she watch Moriarty stick another needle into Sherlock's arm, "what are they doing to you?" She could feel her heart breaking as that mindless smirk grew across Sherlock's lips.

"_What was that, Sherlock? More?"_

"_Mmm," _

"_What did you give him? This reaction isn't right! Something's wrong. Sherlock, can you hear me?" _

"Look at him. Trying to help," Kitty sneered, peering over Anna's shoulder to view into the other room as well, "What an absolute-Molly what are you doing?" Both she and Anna turned their attention toward the pathologist, who had sprung up rather suddenly.

Molly stormed into the bathroom, anger fueling her now. She was done crying. Sherlock needed her to save him and she sure as hell wasn't going to do that by sitting there crying. She stood in the middle of the bathroom, looking every which way for something-anything really-that could help. What exactly she needed it for, she wasn't entirely sure. All Molly knew, and felt in her heart, was that she needed to do something.

Instinctively, Molly rushed over to the shower and started to pull down the curtain rod. She used all the strength she could muster until it finally broke free.

"Jesus, Molly," Kitty said, coming into the bathroom as well, "What are you doing?"  
"Something!" Molly snapped in reply, "Here take this!" She tossed Kitty the rod and then rushed back into the bedroom; "Anna, I need you to cover me," she said as she rushed about the room collecting Sherlock's pill bottle as well as her small makeup bag from her suitcase, "I'm...I'm going in there."

"Molly, they'll kill you!" Anna gasped, "It's a miracle they haven't heard us already!"  
"A miracle, yes, but I'm not throwing this opportunity away," Molly replied, snatching her's and Sherlock's coat out of the closet, "Kitty, get out here!" Once the writer had reappeared, Molly handed her Sherlock's coat; "Take this and grab a couple jumpers out of my suitcase for you and Anna," she explained, putting her own coat on, "We are in the middle of the Atlantic so, you'll need them."  
"And what are you going to do?" Kitty asked, "Charge in there, unarmed, and rescue your man? Honestly, Molly, that is just-"

"I need to do something other than cry!" Molly snapped, turning around and glaring at both Anna and Kitty, "He has done everything for me and I-God, what am I compared to him? He's saved countless others and I-All I've done these past few weeks is belittle him about his illness and doubt his ability to do his amazing work. Now, I let him take this case on and now...now he's clinging onto his life an-and I can't stand by anymore! I have to do something! Crying and panicking won't help him, but this! This is something! Running into a room with a shower rod is ridiculous and stupid, but it's something! I need to do something for him! I have to! I-I am sorry. I don't know where that came from."  
"Your heart," Anna said, solemnly, "Molly, you love him. He means everything to you. I-I know that feeling."  
"I thought you said you and darling Will weren't an item?" Kitty (ill-timely) teased.

"With my husband, you bitch," Anna suddenly snapped, "God, do you ever think of anyone but yourself? Try some common decency!" She then turned her attention back to Molly, "You want to help and not just because he asked you to. He is ill and struggling and you, Molly Hooper, are his saving grace."

"And I damn well am going to prove that," Molly said, tearing up, "I have to prove that to me. It's...It's the least I can do."  
"Aw, Molly, that is too sweet. Keep this sentimental train going, ladies. I am enjoying it very, very much."

The three women quickly turned around to see Moriarty looming in the doorway. A sly grin was across his face as he leaned against the door post, hands stuffed in his pockets; "Look at you three," he said with a chuckle, "Thick as thieves, huh? Planing your big escape...with a shower rod, apparently. How creative."

"You monster," Anna sneered, stepping forward.

"Not the first time I've been called that, darling," Moriarty said, "try to be a little more creative. Like the shower rod! That's a creative weapon, so I know there is some creative flows between the three of you. Now, now, now, what to do now? You three ladies have been chit-chatting and crying this whole time so there must be some fruit to your chatty labor."

Before any one could respond, a low and painful groan erupted from the living area. It was Sherlock, of course. They all turned their heads to see the gray skinned man, twisting and groaning on the couch.

"Aw, look at the poor dear," Moriarty teased, "Poor little Sherlock. He just can't kick that little habit now can he?" He then snapped his fingers and the two men standing by took hold of Kitty and Anna. "Go on, Molly," Moriarty taunted, pushing the pathologist forward a bit, "I think he's calling for you."

Molly's heart sank even further as she was pulled by some phantom force fully into the living room. Her only need now was to be at Sherlock's side. What point in there was escaping? Moriarty was watching them all and Sherlock was now, really, far too ill to move. In fact, she barely recognized the man on that couch. He was too small, too fragile, to be Sherlock Holmes.

He was simply...broken.

"Sherlock," she sighed, kneeling down beside the couch, placing a hand on his forehead, "Love, please. Can you hear me?"

"Mmm," he groaned, his gray eyes opening just a sliver. Sweat was pouring down his face and that mindless smirk adoring his lips made Molly's heart twist. He wasn't here; physically, obviously, but mentally? Not at all.

"Molly," Sherlock managed to say, reaching a shaking hand out and stroking her cheek, "You...here."  
"I am! I'm right here!" she cried, taking both his hands into hers, "Sherlock, love, stay with me! Please, for God's sake, stay with me!"

"Hmm, too...too tired," he groaned, closing his eyes again, "Don't...the door...Hmm, so tired." Sherlock started to chuckle to himself as he seemed to slip back into some kind of stupor.

"God, what have they done to you?" Molly whispered, stroking his cheek.

"It's the drug Moriarty administered," David said, kneeling down beside Molly, "I can't figure out what-"

"Leave them alone!" Anna snapped, struggling in her captor's hold, "You've done enough!"

"Oh ho! Indeed he has," Moriarty laughed, "I am sure you heard all about that, Molly. David here was such a huge help in getting us all here."

"No, no, I-I...Molly, please listen to me." David tried to defend himself, "This was never my plan. I never intended Sherlock's information to get out or get him into this state! Had I known what Moriarty was going to do with that file-"

"What?" Molly cried, shaking her head, "I-I don't..."

"It's like I told you! He did something to Will all those years ago!" Anna said, "Molly, please, believe me!"  
"Did you just call him Will?" Moriarty asked, "How could little Anna know that, hmm? Huh, David, do you have a clue?"  
"Don't taunt me," David said, "Please, just...just let-"

Suddenly, Molly punched David square in the jaw. The rehab doctor stumbled back, but that didn't keep Molly at bay. She quickly rose to her feet and began to kick the man. The other two women instantly took this as their cue and thus began to fight with the men holding them back. As his men were distracted, Moriarty lunged for Molly, grabbing her by the arm and then throwing her against the wall.

"What in God's name do you think you are doing?" he laughed, wrapping his hands around her neck, "Being a hero? Oh, Molly, come now. Look at where you are. Look at what you are doing. This isn't you. This is someone brave and driven, not the acts of a follower who doesn't have their own mind."  
"Let...me...go." Molly grunted, trying to push the man' away.

"Why? So you can let your anger out on David?" Moriarty said, "Please, you and I both know that nothing will come of that." He squeezed harder, but suddenly doubled over when Molly kneed him in the gut.

The consulting criminal groaned loudly as Molly kicked him to the ground. She attempted to make a run for it, but Moriarty grabbed her ankle a pulled her back. Molly toppled to the ground, ripping her dress and skinning her knees on the carpet. Moriarty then flipped her over onto her back and pinned her down by her arms.

"This is oddly familiar, don't you think?" Moriarty breathed out, pressing down his body against her's, "You. Me. Panting like idiots." He then slapped her across the face, cracking her lip. "You know, I always wanted to try the whole violence and love thing," he whispered, licking her cheek, "How about you, honey?"

Tears streamed down Molly's cheeks as Moriarty continued to nibble at her skin. She struggled and struggled, kicking her legs and flailing her arms about in an attempt to fight him off. Uncontrollably, she screamed out: "Sherlock!" she cried, "Sherlock!"

"Oh ho! That is so cute," Moriarty cooed in taunting, "You calling out to your hero. But, he's not much of hero now is he? Lying there, deep in a drug-induced haze, fighting off that illness and, frankly, loosing. God, what do you see in that man? Sad and broken. He really is just a shell of what he used to be, don't you agree? Just a shell of the great man who was once Sherlock Holmes. Or should we start calling him Will like Anna does? What is going on there, huh? So very interesting."

"Shut up," Molly said, closing her eyes, "Shut up."  
"Oh is that a bit too touchy?"  
"Please, just shut up!"

Her anger getting the best of her, Molly punched him in the jaw as hard as possible. She then took advantage of his slightly distracted state and shoved him off of her. She kicked him so hard that the man stumbled into the kitchen area, hitting his back against the counter. Molly then rose to her feet and started to kick Moriarty's face. Anger was fueling her every motion. She had reached her breaking point and she wasn't going to hide it. After a few moments of kicking and causing the man's face to be covered in blood, Molly made one final blow to knock Moriarty unconscious.

Once it seemed like Moriarty was out, Molly rushed over to help Anna take down the man she was attacking. Once that man was unconscious (Anna successfully bludgeoned his head into the door frame at a furious speed) the women moved to help Kitty.

"The rod." the writer gasped as she struggled in the man's grip, "Get...the...rod."

Molly quickly ran to where the shower rod had been discarded and swooped it up. She then swung it violently against Kitty's attacker's skull, causing the man the crumble into an unconscious heap on the ground. Meanwhile, Anna headed to the kitchen first and picked up a knife. She then ran to-what it seemed to be anyway-finish off David.

"Anna, don't!" Molly warned, helping Kitty stand upright.

"NO!" Anna screamed, grabbing David (who had been cowering behind the couch) by the collar of the shirt, "He deserves this!"

"Please, please! I-I didn't mean this to happen," he stammered, shaking in fear, "Anna, please!"  
"Shut up!" she snapped, "Look what you've done! What you've always done! You are the cause of this! Will is dying, my husband is dead and all of our lives have been thrown into a whirlwind of danger because of your actions!"

"Anna, please, put the knife down." Molly warned, catching her breath, "There can't be any more violence."

"Yes, Molly. Listen to Molly," David begged, "I-I have a family!"

"A family!" Anna scoffed, "How nice for you! My hope for that is lying dead just right over there!"  
"Anna," Molly said, running over and grabbing Anna's arm to stop the knife, "Enough! This isn't David's fault; Sherlock has been ill for so long but he wanted this case!"

"Tie him up," Kitty suggested, picking up the discarded ties from the floor, "It's best if we just leave him here."

"No, no, let me do it." Molly said, "Kitty, go get the coats and take Anna with you. We're leaving."

"Where?" Kitty asked.

"Doesn't matter! Just...just go get the coats."

Confused, Kitty took Anna by the arm and pulled her into bedroom again. Molly then took the ties and tied David's wrists together.

"Molly, there never was a case," David sighed, "This was a ruse. You know that and I think Sherlock knows that too."

"Don't." Molly said, tightening the ties, "You don't have a right to say anything right now."

"Molly," Sherlock breathed out.

Molly instantly rose to her feet and ran toward the couch, completely forgetting about everything that was happening. He was waking up, very slowly, but surely. She reached her hand up and brushed it gently across his warm cheek.

"I'm right here," Molly whispered, stroking his cheek again until his eyes fluttered open, "I've got you."

_Let me know what you think!_

_Samwise221b_


	24. Chapter 23: Wait For It, Wait

_**Chapter 23: Wait For It, Wait**_

They made their way down the hall, looking every which way to see if anyone was following them. It seemed ages until they all felt safe, but when they did, the four of them found themselves in the kitchen. How they got there? None of them were sure; fear was guiding their path.

After making their way inside, they decided to take a small break to asses a plan. Molly and Anna set Sherlock up to lay down on the floor with his head resting in Molly's lamp while Kitty tried to asses some security. Sherlock had yet to wake up, but Molly could feel his fever breaking. Some color had returned to his cheeks and the few mumbles he mustered up seemed to be coherent words. In short, it seemed as if he was getting better.

"Anna, can you get me a damp cloth," Molly asked as she managed to lay Sherlock down on the cold, linoleum floor, "I think I can help this fever to pass."

"Of course," Anna replied, scurrying about the kitchen to see what she could find (Surely a cloth and a bowl couldn't be to difficult to find in a kitchen, even one as scarce as this).

"I'll stand by the door," Kitty said, already walking to her self appointed post, "They'll be looking for us, surely. You better have a plan, Molly Hooper."

"Don't worry," Molly said, looking down at Sherlock, "I'll think of something. I have to." She then made herself comfortable and sat down beside Sherlock's head. He was moaning and stirring, much like a child when they are deep asleep and lost in a nightmare. Molly gently placed his head in her lap and began to stroke his hair.

"Sherlock? Love, can you hear me?" She whispered to him, "If you can, then please, for God's sake, please wake up. I...I don't know what to do."

Sherlock just continued to moan in his sleep, oblivious to everything going on around him. Seeing no use in continuing to plead, Molly placed a soft kiss on his warm forehead and stroked his hair.

"This is the best I could do," Anna sighed, kneeling down beside Sherlock's sleeping form, "I hope this helps."

"At this point, I'll take anything," Molly said, taking the small bowl of water and gray rag Anna was holding out to her. She dipped the cloth gently into the water and then folded it atop Sherlock's forehead. "There," she said, "This should cool him down."

"Is his fever-I mean, I know that he's very ill and all, but...Well,is it serious?" Anna sheepishly asked, "Is he...Molly, is he going-"

"No!" Molly answered rather quickly, "Sherlock is very ill, but he isn't going to-No. Not on my watch."

Anna just nodded and looked down at her hands; she didn't want to linger on this topic anymore than Molly did. The thought of loosing Sherlock...it was too much for either of them to even fathom.

"Molly, we're not far from the room" Anna said after a few more moments of silence, "They'll find us."

"No, no, they won't." Molly sighed, running her fingers through Sherlock's curls, "Kitty is on guard at the door, which she_ successfully _barricaded by pushing the shower rod through the door handles."

"She seems really attached to that shower rod." Anna said, "It's odd."

"Kitty is very odd."

"Very."

The women looked at each other and chuckled, something neither of them were aware they could be capable of doing at the moment. The mood seemed to be lightened for the moment, if only briefly. For that few seconds, life didn't seem to be so direr and impossible.

"None of this makes sense, does it?" Anna asked, once the brief moment passed, "This whole situation, hiding in the kitchen, Moriarty, all of it. It all just seems so odd."

"Odd is putting it lightly," Molly said, looking down at the man resting his head in her lap, "Then again, everything I have ever done with this man has been odd."

"I can only imagine," Anna said, "Life with a detective must be exciting."

"Yes. All six months, two weeks, three days and fourteen hours of it," Molly said, a simple smile growing across her lips.

"What?"

"That's how long we've been together. We knew each other before then, obviously, but Sherlock counts the real start of our relationship from the moment he told me he loved me."  
"That's actually sweet."

"You know what, he never asked me to be his girlfriend or anything; we just sort of fell into place, you know? Sherlock doesn't believe in titles like boyfriend and girlfriend or anything of the sort. He and I are in a committed relationship, that is all. He went into the hospital, when he first got sick, I was called in as his primary and, even then, Sherlock wouldn't put it down on paper that I was his girlfriend. He...He would say that I'm rambling right now."

"Would he?" Anna asked.

"Well, I think so." Molly said, blushing, "But not in a mean way, you know. It, of course, sounds mean, but that's just how Sherlock talks to everyone; you should hear it when he talks to Mrs. Hudson."

"No, I understand." Anna said, "It's his way of saying I love you without actually saying I love you. It means that you two have one another and always will. I...I know the feeling."

Molly looked up from Sherlock's face to see Anna, drying her eyes on her sleeve. For a moment, there, Molly had forgotten that Anna had just lost her husband just hours ago. She gently reached out and set her hand on Anna's shoulder; "I am so sorry about Richard," she said, "Truly, I am."

"Thank you," Anna somberly replied, "He...he never knew about Will. I mean, he knew about my past and all of that, but I never told him that I knew the infamous Sherlock Holmes back in his youth."

"Well, he never told you about his childhood troubles with Sherlock." Molly said, "It makes sense you never told him about the two of you."

"I should have," she sighed, "I should have told him a lot of things and now...now I will never get a chance to."

Molly looked up and noticed the tears welling up in Anna's eyes. She smiled meekly and reached out, taking her hand into her own; "Anna," she sighed, "Truly, I am so sorry."

Anna just sighed and closed her eyes: "I'm going to have to move on without him," she said, "I know you just heard about how horrible he was as a child, but...but I promise you that he was an absolute gentleman. He was..."

"Your love," Molly said, "I know the feeling."

Anna opened her eyes and smiled; "Thank you," she sighed, "I...I know you really are sorry."

The two nodded to one another and fell into a comfortable silence. Few minutes passed, then a voice broke through:

"You were off by fifteen minutes, Molly."

Hearing that familiar, comforting (if not insulting) baritone, Molly smiled as she looked down and met the clear eyes of Sherlock Holmes; "Sherlock?" she whispered, combing her fingers through his hair again, "Love? Are you...are you with us?"

"Clearly," He sighed, taking hold of her hand that wasn't stroking his hair, "My self is here, yes, but my mind? Hmm, not entirely."

"Don't say things like that," Molly said, a tear escaping her eye, "I was worried about you."

"I thought I told you not to be," he replied, kissing her knuckles. He then looked back up at her and gave her that half-mouth smirk she loved so much. "Come here," he cooed, reaching a shaky hand up to stroke her cheek. Molly leaned forward and their lips met in a kiss.

"I love you," Molly whispered just before kissing him again.

"I know that," he replied, "Believe me, I know that. Now, help me up. I've been lying here for far too long."

Wit a bit of struggle, Molly helped Sherlock to sit up straight and lean back against her for support,

"We're not alone," Sherlock breathed out, resting his head back against her shoulder.

"Well, no, we're not," Molly giggled, "Anna's here."

"Anna. Yes, Annie," he said, turning his head a bit so that his weary eyes landed on Anna, "Annie, it is you."

"Er, um, yes," Anna said, furrowing her brow, "You-you haven't called me Annie in-"

"Years. Since we were teenagers, in fact," he replied, "I know. Just like no one has called me Will since then either."

"Are you still high?" Anna asked, fearing that the detective's mind was damaged by the recent events, "Do you know where you are?"

"The galley of this god forsaken boat," he groaned, stretching his body out, "and no, to answer your former question, I am not high."

"You were out for hours, love," Molly said, "Do you remember anything?"

"I remember...slipping away," he replied, "Everything faded and I felt...as if I had no control; not over my own body or my own mind, nothing. It was...numbing." Sherlock then turned his gaze back to Anna; "It was all very similar to when we were young. Do you remember?" he asked her, "Those appointments in David's office. You walked in on mine, if I recall."

"You do remember that," Anna said, tearing up, "I thought that-"

"It's all still a blur, but I can piece a majority of it together," he said, but then a realization came over his expression; "Annie, I-I didn't recognize you earlier." he sighed, "We...we knew one another extremely well and I-I had completely forgotten about it."

"You moved on, grew up. We both did," Anna sighed, shaking her head, "I told you in the dinning room, when you asked if we had met before: you wouldn't remember me if I told you that we had. It's been quite some time, Will, and we were-Well, not in the best mind sets."

"We were addicts. One of us still is."

"Once an addict, always an addict."

"God, please don't recite that old decree to me."

Anna let out a small giggle; "Still the same boy I used to know," she said, facing Molly now, "His attitude hasn't changed much."

"Molly, you were there."

"Where?" Molly asked, wrapping her arms around his waist, "What do you mean?"  
"In my head," he tired to explain, "When I was fading, I-I went into my mind palace and I found you." Sherlock gently began to tangle his fingers with her's as he continued; "It was the day when Mycroft brought you to my flat all that time ago."

"The day that I apparently have off by fifteen minutes, yes I think I do." she teased.

"Yes, that's right," Sherlock sighed, nuzzling his head in between her neck and shoulder, "Silly of me to not correct you sooner. I must not be my full self yet."

"Clearly," Molly teased, kissing his lips. Sherlock gladly returned the gesture to the best of his ability and, slowly, they forgot about everything around them. In this moment, everything was alright.

"So, what now?" Anna asked, slightly embarrassed for interrupt the couples short, happy moment, "Are you well enough to move?"

"It appears that I don't have much of a choice," Sherlock grunted, slowly rising to his feet, "Undoubtedly, Moriarty and his small band of idiots will find us. The world's greatest criminal mind is, after all, the mastermind of this extravaganza; there is some level of intelligence in this whole picture."

"To be fair," Molly pointed out, standing up with him, "We only did just run down the hall. It won't be hard to find us."

"The let us move," Sherlock said, heading for the door, "Mustn't waste any more time." He took a few, wobbly steps, but had to stop to catch his breath. He clutched his chest and leaned against a nearby counter, his face scrunched up in a mixture of pain and distress.

"Sherlock," Molly sighed, immediately going to his side and setting her hands on his back, "you need to slow it down."

"No, no, no. I'm alright," he groaned, "I have to...We have to-"

"Make it out, yes," she said, gently cupping the side of his face so to make his eyes lock with her own, "I don't know about you, but I'd like to make it out of here alive and as well as possible."

"Molly..."

"Sherlock, please, you almost died just moments ago. It was too...too real for me. I won't loose you."

Sherlock relaxed his features and simply smiled at Molly. Very slowly, he leaned forward a bit and kissed her on the base of her palm: "Thank you," he whispered, "Just as always, Molly Hooper, thank you."

"For what?" she asked,

"Everything."

"Sherlock, I hardly-"

"I'd be dead by now if not for you," he explained, maintaining eye contact with her, "You saw me in that hospital bed, remember? I was a skeleton of the man I ought to be, getting blood pumped into me like a car getting it's regular dose of petrol. John didn't want me to work, but you...you let me. You helped me while I worked, even when it was very clear that I shouldn't have even left my bed. Why, Molly? Surely, it was the most logical step to stop me from taking on any case."

"You're right. It was," she replied, "but I...I thought that you would give up. You'd stop fighting this disease if you didn't get to work. This illness-anemia, cancer, God knows what horrible bug is running through you-it would consume you if you didn't have your work and I sure as hell wasn't going to let that happen. I thought I was going to loose you."

"You will one day, Molly," he said, solemnly, "Don't deny it because we both know it's the truth."

"Well, I'm not going to make that day come any sooner then planed," she said, kissing his forehead (and taking note of how warm it felt), "I'll save you."

"You always do." Sherlock whispered, pulling her in close for an embrace.

Molly happily returned the gesture, placing a kiss on his cheek: "Don't give up on me." she whispered.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he whispered back.

When they did finally part, Sherlock let out a heavy sigh then wrapped an arm around Molly's shoulders so to support himself as he attempt for the door again. Molly supported his weight by wrapping her arm around his waist, making herself a sort of crutch.

"We should get moving, ladies and gent," Kitty said as she finally emerged from her 'guard post' by the door, "They'll be searching the whole ship before long." She then froze and stared Sherlock with wide eyes: "You...you're awake," she said in a quiet tone, "You look-You look like shit."

"Kitty," Molly groaned, rolling her eyes.

"No, no, I mean...Sherlock, you're dying," Kitty went on, the usual judgmental tone completely missing from her voice, "You're ill."

"Clearly," Sherlock dryly replied.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

"For what? Being yourself? Don't apologize. After all, you did help Molly, did you not? Along with the assistance of that shower rod you are holding so dearly; was that holding the door shut? You should probably put that back after we leave. Keeps up the illusion that we're in here. Anyway, you are already improving your character, Kitty."

"I, erm, what?"

"Never mind, I'm rambling. Mmm, must be that cocktail still in my system." Sherlock chuckled a bit to himself, but that quickly erupted into a small coughing fit. Molly quickly guided him to lean against the counter once more, but he gently brushed a hand through the air to tell her to stop; "I'm alright," he breathed out, "Just...just a small one."

"Yes, well, okay," Anna sighed, "Now, where are we to go? Should we, I don't know, get in contact with someone?"  
"Who?" Kitty asked, "We're in the middle of the Atlantic."

"Yes, but ships have radios right?" Anna asked, looking to Sherlock and Molly for some reassurance, "Maybe we could just send out an S.O.S."  
"What are we? The bloody Royal Navy?" Kitty asked.

"It would be useless, Annie," Sherlock said, "Although your mind is on the right track, it is most likely this ship is off the radar; it doesn't exist on any level. Any S.O.S sent out would be futile. Fortunately, we haven't moved since dinner." He then dug through his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, taking all three women by utter surprise; "I think that even Lestrade can find us, don't you agree Molly?" he joked with a small chuckle, "Slow as the Yard may be, this should be child's play for them."  
"Sherlock," Molly said, "Your phone."

"Yes?"

"You...you have your phone."

"Of course I do."

"But...but Moriarty went through everything.

With just a smile and a wink, Sherlock went about sending a message to Lestrade as if this were any other situation.

"And, of course, he has service!" Kitty sighed, "You never cease to amaze, Sherlock Holmes."

He just replied with a grunt and finished off his text. Sherlock then turned his attention toward Molly wrapped his arm back around her shoulders; "I think I should like to try walking again," he said, gently stroking his fingers down her arm.

"Alright then," Molly sighed, helping him upright again.

"Here," Anna offered as she came up beside Sherlock's unoccupied side, "I can help." She wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist as he put his arm around her shoulders.

"Thank you," Molly said as they started to walk in step with each other.

"Yes, Annie, thank you," Sherlock said, "You shouldn't even be offering to help me, not after what has transpired."

"You-you didn't kill my husband, Will," Anna replied with a heavy sigh, "Yes, I know that we are all here because of Moriarty's hatred toward you, but-You didn't kill my husband, Will. Let's leave it at that."

"Alright," he replied, "Let's."

She gave him a reassuring nod as they started toward the door with Kitty following closely behind.

Once the small party was in the hall, it was clear that the tension in the air was thick. None of them knew if there was any danger lurking around any corner or not. In truth, they had no idea what was going to happen. Were they escaping or just looking for a place to wait out and hide? Nothing was certain or clear.

"Head for the deck," Sherlock said, motioning his head toward the left, "Quickly now."  
"What happens when we reach the deck?" Kitty asked, clutching her shower rod tightly to her chest, "Do you have people waiting for us?"

"What ? No," Sherlock sighed, "I've only just sent out a message."

"Well, I don't know," Kitty said, "You seem to just be on top of everything."

"Sherlock, she has a point," Molly added, "Once we're up there, then what? We just wait?"

"Until it's safe, yes," Sherlock replied, "We'll make for the life boats and head out and, Ms. Riley, didn't I tell you to leave that rod behind?"

"Sherlock," Molly said, bringing his attention back to the task at hand, "Where are we heading out?"

"The ocean is all around us, Molly," he replied, "I thought that was implied."

"Out to sea?! Open sea?!" Kitty gasped, "What?!"

"Will, we are in the middle of the Atlantic," Anna said, "We'll freeze if we just wait out there."

"You've watched far too many dramatic movies," Sherlock said, "It's highly unlikely you will freeze to death while we wait for rescue."  
"So...there is rescue?" Kitty asked

"Yes, of course," Sherlock replied, "I always have a backup, even when I don't want it."

"Mycroft," Molly said, the realization coming over her and calming her nerves, "Of course."

"What?" Kitty asked, "What does that mean?"

"Mycroft? Your brother?" Anna asked, "You two still keep in touch, then."

"Out of familial obligation," Sherlock said, catching Molly's look of disapproval out of the corner of his eye, "From time to time, there is a benefit to having a sibling in the upper working of the world."  
"He's been tracking us, hasn't he?" Molly asked, "How?"

"My brother may give off the air of the elusive, but his methods are basic."

"Your phone."

"Yes, Molly, my phone. Such a time to be alive, yes? Anyone can be found anywhere just as long a they have a rectangular device in their pocket. Now, come on." Sherlock let out a grunt as he let go of both Molly and Anna's shoulders, standing upright on his own; "I think I can make it on my own for a bit. Let's head out."

The small group picked up the pace; Sherlock was in the lead, holding tightly to Molly's hand. Luck, it had seemed, was on their side for the first time during this venture. Although it was small, there most definitely was a window of hope for them. Things seemed to actually looking up.

"It's right up ahead," Anna said, pointing to a sigh for the deck entrance, "We're close."

"Quickly now," Sherlock said.

They reached the door and Sherlock stepped to the side, allowing Anna and Kitty to exit first. Before letting Molly follow them, he quickly pulled her body close to his and planted a deep kiss on her lips.

"Wha-what," Molly sighed when they broke for air, "That, um, that was..."

"Have a future with me, Molly Hooper," Sherlock breathed out, looking deeply into her eyes as he gently cupped her face in his hands, "When we get out of here and are back at Baker Street, I-I'll start going through treatment to get better. I want-I need you to hear that I will not stop fighting, not as long as you're mine. That sounds too possessive, no, I mean-God, Molly, you know what I am saying. You always do. Molly, I want-I need you to hear that I want to spend forever with you."

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly cried, holding back tears, "Are you...Is this your way of proposing? I mean, I-I don't want to assume anything, but..."

"It's what you make of it, love," he cooed, nuzzling his forehead against her's, "Please know, that I am perfectly content with just having you at my side; a ceremony isn't necessary to me. However, if you want a wedding, I'll give you a wedding. You want my name? My love, it's yours. Molly, this is uncharacteristically sentimental of me, I know, but...but I need you to know that I am speaking the truth."

"I know that," she replied, stealing a kiss on his lips, "Of course I want a future with you, Sherlock. It's more...more than I could've ever hoped for. I love you." She kissed him deeply and Sherlock happily returned the gesture.

"We'll, um, we'll need to make it home first," Sherlock said when they parted, "Can't make too many plans from this ship now can we?"

"No, of course not," Molly giggled, "We need to get home first. Sherlock, you've...you've made me very happy."

"I'm glad," he replied, "Now go. We have to hurry."

Molly nodded then headed up to the deck.

Sherlock stayed behind a bit, watching her go until she was out of sight. It was only at that moment that he let his smile quickly fade. He meant every word just now, but it was all said for her. She needed to believe that they were both going to make it out of here. She needed to believe that he was going to be alright and that life was going to move on as it was once they were safely back at Baker Street. She need the hope.

Sherlock felt a sharp pang in his heart as he closed his eyes and focused on evening out his breathing. Something was wrong, more than just the obvious. His body felt as if it was on the verge of shutting down, he had felt this way since waking up moments ago. Sherlock clutched his chest, feeling his racing heart pound against his hand. This wasn't right and far worse then he had felt before. Was this the end or just a sign of the inevitable?

Before heading down out the door to join the others, Sherlock pulled out his phone and looked over the text message he had sent moments ago:

_Call Mycroft for location. Deep trouble. Come quickly. Bring John-SH_

After a thought, Sherlock sent off one more message before tucking his phone away and heading out:

_Don't try to save me. Take care of Molly-SH_

_**Kind of a cliff hanger-ish ending there. Didn't intend for that but sometimes the writing just flows. Hope you enjoyed this update; please let me know what you think.**_

_**Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	25. Ch24: Moment's the Words Don't Reach

_**Chapter 24: Moments the Words Don't Reach**_

The breeze off the sea was cold and harsh.

There was no sound; it was eerily silent.

It was as if the tension of the whole evening was hovering in the air.

A sensation of dread was haunting the small group as they rushed to the nearest life boat. Kitty and Anna were in the head while Molly was only a few feet behind. Sherlock, however, was struggling to pick up his pace. He was out of breath, cheeks red and eyes watery. There was a deep pain gnawing in his skull and causing a strong migraine to cloud his thoughts. His world was falling apart around him and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Everything was blurring together.

Reality was slowly fading away from him.

All he could think was that this is what the end must feel like.

'_You never were the hero, Sherlock Holmes,' _he thought to himself as he gripped his chest tightly, _'No symbolic ending was ever in store for you.'_

"Hurry, hurry," Kitty whispered as she climbed into the boat, "they'll have followed us by now!"

"Just our luck that this is all ready to go, isn't it?" Anna said with a nervous chuckle, "It's...odd, yes?"

"Honestly, I don't give a shit at this point," Kitty said, "Now get in."

Anna quickly climbed inside the boat and got herself situated; "Come on, Molly," she said, reaching her hand out to Molly, "It's your turn."

But Molly was frozen in her spot. Her back was to the boat and her eyes were glued to Sherlock, who was now just a few feet away from them. She could see how weak he was, how fragile he was, and how ill he really was becoming with every passing second. As if some phantom force was pulling her toward him, Molly stepped away from the boat and was instantly at his side.

"Molly, get on the boat," Sherlock breathed out, "What...what in God's name are you...are you doing?"

"Helping you," she said, taking his hand into her's, "Come on."

"No, 'm just...just...God." Sherlock groaned, collapsing into her arms.

"Whoa, oh! Okay," she said, catching him and slowly bringing them both to sit down, "You're okay. You're okay. I've got you." Once they were down (Sherlock was practically in Molly's lap, leaning against her small body and resting his head back on her shoulder), Molly placed a hand on his forehead. "Your fever's back up," she said, wrapping her free arm around his waist, "Sherlock, you're breathing like you've run a marathon."

"Don't you worry about me, Molly," he sighed, lulling his head from side to side, "Go."

"Christ, Sherlock, you're really burning up." she said, attempting to bring him to his feet, "I really do hope Mycroft's close. You need a hospital, love."

"No, no, I'm fine," he said, coughing a bit, "Just...just out of breath."

"You don't sound so convincing. Let me help you."

"Molly, please, get on that boat."

"Not without you, you git."

"You have to."

At the sound of those words, Molly's eyes widened. It wasn't so much the sentence but how he said it that made her heart drop to the pit of her stomach. He sounded as if he had given up on everything.

He wasn't going to get on the boat.

He wasn't planing on making it out of here.

"Sherlock, what are you saying?" she asked in disbelief.

"You know." he said, stone faced.

"I need to hear you to say it." she said

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and took both of Molly's hands into his own; "Molly, you...you have to leave me behind."

"No. Don't you dare," she whispered, keeping her strong gaze on him, "Don't you dare just stop trying."

"Molly."

"No, Sherlock, no more. We're going to get out of here. Both of us."

"Molly, please."

"Sherlock, come on."

"I can't, not anymore. Just leave."

"No. No, absolutely not!" she snapped, "You can't expect me to leave you here!" Molly then closed her eyes and took in a deep breath; "You've changed your tune," she whispered, holding back tears, "What happened to the man I was talking to just a few seconds ago?"

"Hmm, it seems that his demons got the best of him," Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes and relaxing into her hold, "Molly, listen to me. I have to keep you safe."

"And I have to get you home" she rebutted, kissing the top of his head, "I promised you that I would help you see this through."

"I know, and...and you did all you could," he said, "Molly, love, I wish there was another way."

"You are being ridiculous." she said, "What about spending a future together, hmm? Was that a lie?"

"No. No, Molly, I meant it. Believe me."

"Then come on and get in the boat!"

Sherlock just let out a heavy sigh and nuzzled his head into the crook of her neck. Molly waited for him to respond, listening to his breathing quicken. Suddenly, Sherlock's body stilled. His features relaxed and he seemed to fall into a peaceful sleep. Worried, Molly gave him a slight shake, which just caused his head to roll back as if he couldn't keep it upright any more.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, stay with me." Molly cried, gently tapping his cheek to rise some sort of response from him. Sherlock didn't respond; he was completely limp in her arms, completely unconscious.

"What's happened?" Kitty asked, "Is he out again?"

"Someone help me get him in the boat," Molly called out, looking up in panic, "I...I don't think he's breathing!"

Both Kitty and Anna rushed out of the lifeboat and toward the couple's aide. When they reached their side, Anna knelt down beside Molly to comfort her while Kitty placed her fingers against Sherlock's neck.

"There's a pulse, but we need to get him out of here," she said, "God, Molly, I...I don't think-"  
"Don't you dare say it! He'll make it." Molly snapped, glaring at her, "I know he will!"

Sherlock let out a deep groan and rolled his head up a bit. He then slowly opened his eyes and locked his gaze with Molly; "Molly," he sighed, "Did I...What-"

"You passed out, love," she said, giving his hand a squeeze, "Your fever is picking up and I thought you were-Look, I'm here, Sherlock, I'm right here. Don't fade out on me again, alright? You may have given up, but I haven't."

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes again. Not wanting to waste anytime, Molly brought Sherlock up into a standing position. She tossed Sherlock's right arm over her shoulders and wrapped her arm around his waist. Stepping in immediately, Anna supported his other side in the same manner while Kitty grabbed his ankles.

"On my count, we lift him," Molly instructed, "One...two...three."

With a bit of trouble (he may have appeared thin and small, but Sherlock Holmes' was not a light weighted man), they lifted the detective and carefully carried him to the lifeboat. Very gently, they laid him down on his back with his head resting against a small stack of life vests.

"This Mycroft had better be close," Kitty said, taking hold of the lever to bring the boat down.

"He'll be here," Molly replied, sitting beside Sherlock, "I know Mycroft. He'll...he'll be here." She then set her hand over Sherlock's heart and looked down at his sleeping face; _'For God's sake, he better be.' _she thought.

Kitty flipped the lever and quickly rushed back to get into the boat. With a bit of a jolt, the lifeboat started to move down to the water. It was silent between the group; nothing but the squeak of the boat and the soft sound of the ocean water gently sloshing against the side of the ship.

"Molly," Sherlock managed to say after a few minutes. He opened his eyes and looked around, piecing together his surroundings.

"Hey," Molly replied, situating herself to lay beside him, "Stay awake, alright? Can you do that for me?"

His eyes met her's and a somber smile grew across his lips: "I'm sorry." he whispered, resting his hand atop her's, "You never should have been here."

"Sherlock," Molly whispered, kissing his cheek, "I chose to be here. I wanted you to take this case. I wanted you to work. You asked me to come with you and I did because I love you. Alright? That is why I'm here. I love you and I will be at your side no matter what."

Sherlock chuckled and brought her hand to his lips; "Sentiment: always the key motivator." he replied, kissing her knuckles. Molly smiled back, knowing in her heart exactly what he meant.

He was saying I love you too.

Breaking the moment, the boat suddenly came to a jolting stop as the automatic lever was flipped back to it's original position:

"Aw, would you look at this? Three girls and a dying man in a boat; sounds like a good television series. I'm sure there will be tragic ending though, don't you?"

Time seemed to still as they all froze at the sound of Moriarty's voice. The lifeboat was just past the edge of the deck, too close for comfort to the menacing man standing just a few steps away. For the small group, their worst fears had become reality:

They had been caught.

Moriarty was just a few feet away, standing beside the lever, a gun in his hand and pointed right at them. A stream of caked blood, originating from the wound on his forehead, had stained the side of his face. The look of pure hate glowed in his fiery eyes. If there was any doubt left that Moriarty was mad man, his appearance quickly eliminated it.

"Oh, beautiful ladies, would you do this one small favor?" he sneered, "Get out of the boat,leave Sherlock there and come on over. Quickly now."

Fear fueling their movement, Kitty and Anna stepped out of the lifeboat, hands high above their heads.

"HA! Look at you two," Moriarty taunted to Kitty and Anna, "I'm no cop! Put your bloody hands down! Although, I must admit, I do like being the dominate one. On your knees, girls!"

Kitty and Anna obeyed, kneeling down at his feet. Moriarty chuckled, but then turned fiercely cold: "Molly Hooper!" he screamed, "Molly Hooper, you whore, get your ass over here!"

Molly, however, remained inside. She moved her body to be as close to Sherlock as possible. She wasn't going to leave him, no matter how in danger her life may be at the moment.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock whispered.

"Staying with you," she replied as if it were no problem at all, "I'm not leaving your side."

Sherlock simply nodded and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Allowing a tear to roll down her cheek, Molly leaned forward and placed a soft kiss to his forehead. _'What the hell am I doing?' _she thought, _'We shouldn't even be here.'_

"Oh, are you pulling the dedicated lover card?" Moriarty whined, "Really!? Come on now, Molly!"

Molly didn't move an inch. She didn't take her eyes away from Sherlock's gaze even though a chill of fear was running up her spine. She knew it was logical to do as the mad man said, but her heart wasn't letting her leave Sherlock's side. She simply couldn't.

"Molly, you know that I hate being disobeyed!" Moriarty continued to yell, "Get over here or I'll come and get you! You don't want that now, do you?"

"Molly," Sherlock whispered, pulling Molly in close, "Stay down."

"Sherlock," she whispered in reply, furrowing her brow.

Before she could ask what he meant, Sherlock placed a finger to her lips; "Stay down," he repeated, "so I don't hit you."

Molly furrowed her brow even deeper, simply confused by his request, but then her eyes caught the glimmer of a steak knife that was tucked in his coat pocket.

"Thank God we hid in a kitchen,right?" he whispered.

"You snagged that from the counter," Molly said, looking back into his eyes, "Sherlock, how-"

"Like I-I said," he sighed, pulling the knife out, "Stay. Down."

"No games, Molly!" Moriarty continued to taunt, "Just come out!"

"Sherlock, what are you going to do?" Molly whispered, "He'll kill us."

Sherlock didn't reply. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, focusing the remaining energy. He then slowly opened his eyes, took a hold of Molly's hand and placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles: "Don't stop me," he said, speaking slowly so he could get the phrase out in full.

"What?" she asked, locking her eyes with his, "No. No, Sherlock-"

"If you don't come out, I'll kill one of these girls!" Moriarty said, "Actually, you know what? I might just do that."

"Do your worst, prick," Kitty sneered, "You don't scare us!"

Moriarty smiled as he knelt down to be face to face with her: "We've got history, you and I," he said, brushing the butt of the gun against her cheek, "I was looking forward to seeing you again. Oh, the times we had. I've missed your fire."

Kitty sneered and spat in his face, but Moriarty wasn't phased. He just kept staring at her, not breaking eye contact; "You silly, silly girl," he whispered, "As if I needed another reason to kill you."  
"I'm not afraid." she sneered.

"Aren't we the brave one, now? Not like little Anna here; she's shaking like a leaf and too scared to move." Moriarty then turned his attention back to the lifeboat: "Not like you, Molly," he called out, "You're not moving because you are too in love. Cute, isn't it?"  
Suddenly, Kitty lunged toward the man. Moriarty quickly reacted and kicked her back down, causing her to tumble backward. Without a moment to spare, he pointed the gun to her forehead and fired. Kitty's lifeless body fell back with a thud, a pool of blood forming around her head.

"OH DEAR GOD!" Anna screamed as she crawled away from the scene, too afraid to look at the body beside her.

Molly bit her lip and curled against Sherlock, hiding her face on his chest. This was out of hand, completely chaotic. To her surprise, though, Sherlock pushed her aside and separated himself from her.

As if some phantom strength was pulling him upward, Sherlock sat up and threw the knife toward Moriarty. Fortunately, (as well as surprisingly), the knife nicked the hand that was holding the gun. Moriarty let out a cry as the firearm fell to the ground. Sherlock managed to get out of the lifeboat and onto his feet; where this sudden bought of strength had come from, even he didn't know.

"Sherlock!" Molly screamed as she watched him kick Moriarty to the ground and then head over to Anna's cowering form.

"Annie," Sherlock said, picking up the gun, "Annie, it's alright. Get to the boat."

Anna just stared at him with wide eyes, shaking with pure fear and shock.

"Annie," he said again, "Go. You have to go."

"He killed her." she muttered, tears pouring from her eyes, "Will, he...he killed her."

"I know and I won't let him kill you, I promise. But I need you to get to the boat, alright. Don't look back. Just go."

Very slowly, Anna crawled her way back to the lifeboat. When she was close enough, Molly helped her inside and the two women held onto each other, not knowing what else to do.

"Aw, look at you," Moriarty said with a sneer, "Always the hero."

"Shut it." Sherlock snapped, pointing the gun at the man's head "On. Your. Knees."

Moriarty complied, a devilish gleam in his eyes. He slowly got down on his knees as Sherlock circled around him like a vulture around it's prey. There was a fire in his eyes, one of pure hate. Sweat was pouring down his forehead and his steps were off balance, but still there was a terrifying essence about the sickly man.

Once he stilled, Sherlock walked over to the boat and tossed his cell phone inside; "This will help Mycroft find you," he said, looking Molly dead in the eyes, "Now get out of here."

"Sherlock, no," Molly breathed out, "We can't..."

"It wasn't a question." Sherlock said. He then went to the lever and flipped it, causing the lifeboat to head down to the water.

"No, wait! Wait!" Molly cried, as the boat slowly went down, "Sherlock! Sherlock!" But he didn't respond. The detective just turned his back on her and cocking the gun. Without a second thought, Molly let go of Anna and jumped out of the boat, just barely making it.

"Molly, for God's sake!" Sherlock snapped, but he was silenced as he watched Molly snatch up the discarded knife and pointed it at Moriarty.

"Don't you dare move!" she sneered at him, "You move, I'll cut your throat myself."

"My, my, my Ms. Hooper," Moriarty said with a chuckle, "Look who became brave."

"Molly," Sherlock said, taking a hold of her arm, "Get back on the-"

"If you pass out, whose going to take him out?" she asked, locking her eyes with his, "If you...if you die, then who is going to finish this? I'm not leaving your side and I am not letting him get away. So don't put me on that boat."

Sherlock gazed into her eyes, wanting desperately for her to go back into the boat, but he couldn't find the words. Much to his own surprise, Sherlock felt pride. He knew that she wasn't going to budge on her stance and he couldn't help but be immensely in love with her in this moment. She was going to stay with him, maybe even die with him, and oddly enough he was accepting of it. This woman, this incredible and steady staple of his life, was here and un-moving.

So, this is love.

"Impossible woman," Sherlock whispered as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in close to his side, "You very impossible woman." he reiterated as he placed a kiss on the top of her head.

Molly held him back and placed her head on his shoulder: "Some threatening couple we are, huh?" she whispered.

Sherlock chuckled then turned back to face Moriarty; "You," he sneered, his tone now cold and serious, "Speak."

"Aw, but you two were having such a moment," Moriarty sneered, "Come on, are you going to kill me, Sherlock? Are we to die together?"

"Why did you come back?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the man's taunt.

"You got my message, did you not?" Moriarty replied, "I knew you missed me so I was just adhering to your desires."

"No," Sherlock replied, "I never wanted to see you again. You were dead, good and dead. I wanted you to stay that way. Why did you come back?"

"There always has to be a mystery with you," Moriarty sang, "Drama. Drama. Drama. Let's look at the big picture, huh? You came out here hoping to solve the case to end all cases. Sherlock, darling, you thought you could finally get me. But in your state!? HA! You weren't going to even make it to the end of this week let alone stop me once and for all, let's be honest. You are barely keeping upright now; you are leaning on your petite little girlfriend like a life line. But look at the brighter side of this: You're not dead, not yet at least. But others are and it's all because of you.

Your childhood bully: Dead.

The writer who almost ended you: Dead.

Hmm, maybe this isn't so bright. The truth is death follows you like a stray puppy, nipping at your heels."

"And you are the grim reaper," Molly quickly said, "I've seen your handy work. Too many innocent people die because of you."

"Nature of the beast, darling," Moriarty replied with a smirk.

"You have neglected to answer my question," Sherlock said, "Why did you come back?"

"Because you are coming to an end," Moriarty said, "This is the final chapter of the Sherlock Holmes tale. I wanted to be there; I had to be there. Of course, I knew that your end had to be my end. I accepted that."

Sherlock furrowed his brow as Moriarty began to unbutton his shirt, but his expression quickly changed to that of a somber look as he spotted a few flashing lights from his chest.

"This was supposed to be for dear old David," Moriarty said, exposing the bomb vest completely, "but he was so emotional. Glad I put a bullet in his brain...Oh! I killed him, by the way. Sorry for him to have such an anti-climatic end, but well, shit happens."

"This was your plan," Molly said, "Kill us all and then eliminate any proof."

"Such a clever one you've got there, Sherlock," Moriarty said, "Good on you, Molly."

"Another trip down memory lane?" Sherlock said, tightening his hold on Molly's waist.

"Caught that, did you?" Moriarty chuckled, "It is all a bit familiar: you with a gun pointed at me, a bomb vest and a large body of water to our right. If only John were here. Ah, well. I guess we'll just settle for Molly. Oh and there is a slight change then from before: I have a timer now. It's been nice seeing you again, Sherlock Holmes, and I am so glad we got these parting moments." Moriarty gave Sherlock one more look of dark hatred. A smirk suddenly grew across his pale lips:

"You do look good, by the way. Death suits you."

Before Sherlock could utter a response, Molly took his hand and pulled him toward the edge of the deck. With mere seconds to spare, they jumped into the water below, just barely missing the explosion happening behind them.

The cold water was numbing, almost painfully so. Molly struggled around in the vast, dark abyss, trying not to get pulled into the chaos. Bits of the boat were dropping around her. The boat itself was slowly sinking down, a large hole now adoring the place where the deck once was. It all seemed like a scene from a film, too unreal to fathom.

Molly waved her hand about to keep a hold on Sherlock's hand, but suddenly became painfully aware that he was no longer beside her. Panic rushing through her, Molly brought herself up to the surface. She looked around at the debris in absolute horror.

"Sherlock!" she attempted to scream, but the cold was making it difficult. The dark outline of a body floated by her and she quickly took a hold of it. She quickly released it, though, and splashed it away as as she looked at the face of a man she recognized as one of Moriarty's men. The one who had greeted her and Sherlock when they first came on board, in fact.

She looked around herself and took note of the bodies that were scattered about. Some were Moriarty's men. Some were the passengers that Moriarty had already claimed. Molly could only tread water and look around in absolute shock and fear. This chaos that had erupted was more then she could have imagined of happening.

This was supposed to just be a case.

A case that was to get Sherlock out of the house.

Suddenly, a hand took a hold of her shoulder and pulled her up and out of the water. Molly panicked for a moment, but then calmed a bit as she realized that she was in the lifeboat. How it managed to stay intact after the explosion, God only knew. But it was the lifeboat from before, but it now only contained two people. It's previous occupant was nowhere to be seen.

Dripping wet, Molly's body shook as a pair of arms wrapped around her and pulled her in close. She returned the gesture to the best of her ability, tears streaming down her cheeks as she nuzzled her head against her holder's chest.

"Oh God," Molly breathed out, "Sherlock."

"I-I've got you," Sherlock breathed out, resting his soaking wet cheek atop her head, "I-I'm here."

For the first time in months, since hearing Sherlock's diagnosis, since taking on this case with him, since that day she laid with him in the hospital bed while he was getting his treatment, Molly began to sob. The tears flowed freely down her cheeks. Her body convulsed with both racking sobs and the cold. Sherlock held her as tight as possible, trying to keep some control over his own shaking body. He could feel his chest tighten and his head begin to pound, but he didn't care. All he wanted was to comfort her.

"Shh, w-we're okay," he cooed, "I've...I've got you."

Molly just continued to sob and hold onto him as tight as possible.

They both laid there, wrapped up in each others arms, taking in all that had just transpired. This case, this whole event, was over and here they were: laying in a lifeboat among debris and dead bodies, soaked to the core, in the middle of the Atlantic. Neither of them knew what was going to happen now and, frankly, they didn't care. Because it was over. It was finally over.

"I-I honestly wish this could be...be different," he breathed out, tangling his fingers between hers, "You. This. Us."

"You sound like you've...you've given up," she whispered, "It...It can't all be hopeless."

"No," he said, kissing her forehead, "Not...not for you."

"Sherlock."

"I...I mean it."

Molly raised her head and placed a kiss to his lips: "I love you."

"And...and I you." Sherlock whispered, placing his free hand on the back of her head. He kissed her forehead then brought her head to rest on his chest. He held her tight and she just stared ahead, out at the open sea.

Darkness.

Everything was hidden from view by the black veil of night. The only light was from the stars, but what help are they trying to see anything ahead? There was no sound, not anymore. There was the occasional faint splash of water against the boat, but it made no significant noise, at least not one anyone could hear...That is if anyone was around to hear it.

The water was taunting the boat, coaxing everything around it to be consumed by the dark freezing hell below. It seemed to be an evil creature that was waiting in the darkness for it's next attack.

Waiting.

_**A long one and I hope you all enjoyed it. This was hard, really hard. I've been working on it since the beginning-hence the beginning of the prologue being the end of this chapter-and I knew where I wanted this to go. There was lots of plotting and re-plotting and then the execution. I hope it was worth the wait and read. As always, let me know what you think. Thank you all and I'll see you in the next chapter.**_

_**Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	26. Chapter 25: The Unimaginable

_**Chapter 25: The Unimaginable**_

Molly woke up on the couch at Baker Street. Sunlight was peeping through the partly open curtains, giving the living room just a small bit of illumination. The patter of rain and the rumbling of thunder echoed off the walls and a small fire was fading in the fire place. Nothing was out of place or obscure; it all looked exactly like it did when she and Sherlock left. With a yawn, Molly sat up, pushing aside the blanket that had been draped over her.

"Sherlock," she yawned, stretching her arms out and arching her back, "Sherlock?"

She heard some ruffling and footsteps coming from the kitchen. Just as she was about to head over to join him, Sherlock appeared in the archway. He looked healthy, healthier then Molly had seen him in a long time. He was dressed in black trousers and a light blue button-up with his camel colored dressing gown over it. His hair was tousled about and in his arms, resting on his hip, wrapped up in a fuzzy, white blanket with a yellow trim, was a baby.

"Ah, it would seem both of my girls are awake." Sherlock said, taking the child's pudgy hand into his own, "Shall we go sit with Mum, hmm?" The baby nuzzled her head into the crook of Sherlock's neck and let out a soft coo. "Oh, I see," he whispered, adjusting his hold on her, "Not quite awake yet, are we?" The baby cooed again, causing the detective to smile and place a chaste kiss on her forehead.

Molly looked at the pair in awe, her eyes mainly focused on the little girl, this baby, was beautiful, absolutely beautiful. She was pale but had a rosy tint to her round cheeks. Her dark tufts of hair were beginning to curl and her eyes were a stormy mixture of blue and green. Her pink lips were thin and shaped in a small cupids bow. All in all, she looked just like her father.

She looked just like Sherlock.

"Her afternoon sleep lasted a good two hours." Sherlock said, walking over to sit beside Molly, "I think we may have finally cracked the case on how to get this little one to settle down."

Molly smiled as he sat down and gently adjusted the little girl to lay down on her back in his lap. The baby girl smiled at Molly, gazing at her with bright eyes.

"Will you look at that?" Sherlock sighed, taking hold of both of the baby girl's pudgy hands, "That smile. Oddly enough, when she smiles like that, I can see her thinking. Wouldn't you agree? You can see her mind working. It's fascinating."

"Since when are you interested in babies?" Molly asked in a soft tone, setting her left hand on the baby's stomach and rubbing small circles atop it.

"Since we had one." he replied, "Does that shock you?"

"You always shock me, Sherlock Holmes."

"Hmm, I do like to keep you on your toes, Molly Holmes."

It was at that moment when Molly noticed the silver band and matching diamond ring that adorned her left ring finger. She then turned her gaze to Sherlock's hand, noting the matching silver band that he wore, and furrowed her brow; "I'm...I'm a bit lost," she said, "What-"

"You're confused. Understandably." he said, keeping his eyes on the baby girl, "This is odd, is it not? You. Me. This little girl. This simply isn't us, Molly."

She chewed her bottom lip and let out a soft breath: "Are...are you gone?" she asked, "Have I lost you?"

"What an extreme jump to a rather morbid conclusion," he replied, "You could have never lost me, Molly. Don't blame yourself for any of this. I was lost, as you put it, the moment I first took ill. I was always going to die, you know that. My own body took me away from you; if you need someone or something to blame, blame that."

"So...you-you're dead."

"So macabre of you, love. If I'm dead, then why would I be here?"

"Well, I-This just isn't making sense."

Sherlock just chuckled and smiled at her: "As I am sure you have figured out, Molly, this isn't real. How much sense do you want any of this to make? This is your head, your mind palace as it were."

Molly sighed again and rested her head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock placed a kiss on her forehead then brought the baby up to be cradled against his chest; "Now, now, don't fuss," he cooed to the little girl, who had begun to whimper a bit, "Your mother and I don't want any of that."

The little girl just nuzzled her head in between her father's neck and shoulder, letting out a soft yawn.

"She looks like you" Molly said, resting her hand on the baby's back.

"Pity," he said, "She'll have to live with those cheekbones for the rest of her days. Maybe she'll have better luck then me; maybe she'll grow out of them, or is it _into_ them?"

Molly let out a small chuckle as she placed a kiss on his cheek. They then sat there in silence, both lovingly gazing at the content baby in his arms.

"Molly," Sherlock finally said, somberly, "I know how much you wanted this."

She nodded, knowing exactly where this was all going.

"Perhaps, one day, you will." he continued, "Just not with me."

Slowly, the room started to brighten as if it were being consumed by a white light. Molly rose her head and looked around in panic. Sherlock, on the other hand, was very calm and collected. He placed another kiss to her forehead, then rose to his feet.

"You're waking up, love," he said, readjusting the baby on his hip, "So that is our cue, little one." The baby let out a soft coo and nuzzled her head back on his shoulder, her soft tufts of hair brushing against his cheek. "I know," he said, kissing the baby's forehead, "I'll miss her too."

"No, wait," Molly said, standing up, "Sherlock, don't-"

"Live your life, Molly Elizabeth Hooper," he said, looking into her eyes and smiling at her kindly, "Wake up, get your strength back and live your life. That is what I want for you."

"Sherlock," Molly said, tearing up, "Don't go."

"Come on, little one," he whispered,heading toward the bedroom, "Time for us to go."

"Sherlock, wait."

"You have to wake up now, Molly. It's time for you to wake up."

Molly came to and found herself in a private hospital room. The fluorescent lighting made her heavy eyes squint as she slowly tossed around, ruffling the thin, coarse bed sheets. Shapes slowly became objects and her vision cleared after a few blinks. There was the soft mummer of voices coming from close by so, in hoping that she'd see a friendly face, Molly turned her head toward the sounds.

"Keep me posted," Mycroft said to the doctor standing by the door, "Alert John Watson that I will be in here if he needs me. Tell him that I will be handling all of my sister-in-law's affairs and then heading over to join him."

'_Sister-in-law' _she thought, _'Am I still dreaming? That can't be right.'_

"Yes, of course, ," the doctor replied with a nod, "Sir, is there someone you would like me to contact? Any family? A priest?"

"No, no thank you. That won't be necessary," Mycroft quickly said, a hint of sadness in his tone, "As far as family goes, I'll let our parent's know myself."

"Yes, sir. Please let me know if there is anything more you need."

"Thank you, Doctor."

The doctor left and Mycroft turned around to enter the room fully. He looked exhausted, as if he had been through the ringer and then some. There were bags under his eyes and his shoulders were slumped forward. His usually pressed and pristine attire was ruffled slightly; his shirt was untucked, his tie askew and his suit jacket was tossed over a chair beside the bed along with his umbrella. It was clear that Mycroft had had a long night of stress and worry.

"Mycroft, you should head home," Greg Lestrade said as he stepped into the room (he had apparently been standing just outside), "Get some rest, a fresh pair of clothes and come on back tomorrow. There's nothing more to be done today."

"So says you," Mycroft sighed, "I'm not leaving."

"Look, I'm hopeful too. God knows that I am," Greg went on, "but you heard the doctor."

"He asked if I wanted him to contact a priest."

"And you know what that really means, don't you?"

"I saw my brother, Detective Inspector! Sat at his bedside," Mycroft suddenly snapped, "I know what is really happening here and I know what could very well happen at any time! Now, if you please, let me be. Isn't there a missing person report you should be looking into? Good Afternoon to you!"

With a heavy sigh, Lestrade shook his head and started to leave; "You sound just like him, you know," he said over his shoulder, "Stubborn like him too."

"We're more alike then either my brother or I would like to admit," Mycroft sighed, "Afternoon, Detective Inspector."

Lestrade nodded and then headed out. Once he was gone, Mycroft rubbed a hand across his face and let out a heavy sigh. He then walked over to the the chair closest to Molly's bed and took a seat. Molly watch in silence as he took out his cell phone and fiddle with a few buttons. He stared at the screen with a look that could only be described as a mixture of sorrow and exhaustion. With a groan, Mycroft tucked the phone back into his pocket and leaned back into the chair. After a few moments of silence, he finally turned his attention toward the bed.

"I do hope my conversations with Detective Inspector Lestrade and that doctor didn't wake you," he said to Molly in a tone that she found surprisingly enduring, "I expected you to sleep for a few more minutes. Any pain?"

Molly just shook her head. For some reason, all and any form of words were failing her. She grunted a bit as she managed to situate herself in an upright position, taking note of the IV hooked up to her arm.

"You are a fortunate woman," Mycroft continued, helping her to sit up against her pillows, "To be out in the cold breeze of the Atlantic, soaked to the skin, and getting away with just a mild case of hypothermia; Yes, you are very lucky indeed. Sherlock did say you were strong."

Molly looked up at him, taking note of the sad look in his eyes. She didn't want to think about what had most likely happened to make Mycroft so glum. She wanted to remain as ignorant as possible.

"H-how long?" she asked. Her throat was sore so her voice was no more than a mere whisper. Mycroft had to lean in a bit closer just to hear her properly.

"The better half of the day," he replied, "You barely stirred as they hooked up the IVs."

"N-no. I mean-"

"Ah! You mean, how long until I found you and my brother."

Molly nodded.

Mycroft sighed and took a seat again in his chair; "What can you remember?" he asked, "Anything at all?"

"There...there was an explosion." Molly managed to say, "We hit the water, somehow made to…to the lifeboat." she then stopped as a dark thought crossed her mind; "There was another woman who…who made it off the boat," she said, looking Mycroft in the eye, "Anna's her name."

"Yes, Anna Pierce, formally Anna Cartwright: my brother's acquaintance from rehab," Mycroft said, "There is an investigation into her whereabouts. There was no sign of her in the wreckage."

Molly closed her eyes and harshly swallowed the emotions that were threatening to erupt: _'No time for tears,' _she told herself, _'Not now.' _

"What do you remember after the bomb went off, ?" Mycroft asked, pressing her to go on.

"Not…not much," she admitted, opening her eyes again and staring down at her lap, "Sherlock and I were awake-well, for the most part-then it got…it got very dark and cold. Sherlock…his body was shaking and then-then it wasn't. I tried to-to keep him awake, but…but I don't' think it worked." She stopped herself, then after a few moments continued; "I remember hearing John's voice and being wrapped in blankets. Then it's...it's black."

She was lying. She remembered looking at Sherlock's unconscious form while John attempted to wake him. She remembered how pale and lifeless he looked.

She remembered that feeling of loosing him.

"You both were out there for hours," Mycroft said, breaking her train of thought, "The phone signal was lost and it was extremely difficult to pin point the exact location of your lifeboat. Once we found it, you were both immediately tended to by Doctor Watson and the medical team.

Everything moved quiet quickly after that were both transferred to here, to London, via helicopter and treated accordingly. As I said before, you were treated for mild hypothermia. Your vitals have manged to climb back to the proper standers, however, the doctor's here wanted to keep you for another day just to monitor your progress. That was late this morning and it's nearing 6 in the evening now. I believe I shall call that doctor back in here, now. You seem alright now. Fit for home, I should say; A place that I have no doubt you are wishing to be. Mrs. Watson has brought some of your things here for you, I do believe she is still upstairs with my brother. I will send her down at once to assist you."

"Mycroft," Molly began but she was quickly cut off.

"I will have someone assist you and stay at Baker Street for as long as you need," he went on, rising from his chair, "Mrs. Hudson has always been a help, but she can not be relied upon for everything. I have a team searching the wreckage and I will personally let you know if any of your belongings are found intact."

"You called me your sister-in-law," was all Molly could say as her gaze finally met his. Mycroft stared at her blankly for a moment as if he were processing what she had just said. Molly decided to press on regardless:

"When you were talking with…with the doctor," she said, "You called me your sister-in-Law. Why?"

Mycroft let out a heavy sigh and shook his head; "Because it is what my brother would have wanted." he said, sitting down in his chair once again, "Only family is allowed full medical information on patients; even I can not bypass that. Sherlock wanted you to be taken care of…and I am adhering to that request."

The usually stoic man cleared his throat and looked down at the floor, his hands tensely resting on his knees. Molly may not have attained the deductive powers of the Holmes', but even she could piece this puzzle together. Mycroft's demeanor, the tone of his voice: she knew what he was refraining from telling her.

Something was terribly wrong with Sherlock.

"You…you said _'wanted'_," she said, swallowing her emotions and trying to sound brave, "_'It is what my brother would have wanted.' '..wanted you to be taken care of.' _Mycroft…what's happened?"

A somber, and rare, smile grew across his lips: "My baby brother has taught you well," he said, "or perhaps I have let my guard down."

"Mycroft, please," Molly urged, "You knew he was sick. You knew that he…he wasn't doing well."

"Ms. Hooper," he said, finally meeting her eyes, "Ask me."

"Mycroft-"

"I know what you want to say so go on. Ask me."

"I-I can't."

"You need to."  
Molly took in a shaky breath, tears finally welling up in her eyes. He was right; she needed to say what was on the tip of her tongue and no keep it inside. She needed to know.

"Is…is Sherlock," she began, but then quickly stopped. She chewed her lip, took a deep breath, then tried again: "Is Sherlock…dead?"

"No,but he is not himself," Mycroft said, solemnly, "He's alive, Ms. Hooper, but-Please, understand me when I say this: Sherlock is not lying in that hospital bed, just his body. My brother is alive in the mere medical sense of the word. His heart is beating slowly and he is breathing with the…with the assistance of a machine. He…he's not awake at all." Mycroft cleared his throat, then surprisingly took her hand into his; "He's been intubated and placed under careful watch by both the hospital and myself. It would appear that he-After you were both picked up from the lifeboat he slipped into a-a comatose state. They have done everything to rose him, but…but it would appear that he just won't wake."

Mycroft stopped and closed his eyes, letting the weight of his words was over him. Molly gave his hand a gentle squeeze, silently urging him to go on. The words were hard for her to hear, harder than she could have imagined, but she stilled needed to hear them.

"He's never been in perfect health, you know," Mycroft went on, sniffling a bit, "My little brother has always treated his body like an necessary thing; _'Transport' _he always says, isn't it? _'It's all just transport.' _And I'm not just speaking of the drugs, mind you. As a boy, he often would run around in the rain without a coat and then wake up the following day with a cold. When he was a young student, on more than one occasion, I remember finding himself on the floor of our father's study, completely exhausted from all of that studying and working himself into the late hours of morning. It…It was only a matter of time, I suppose, until his body caught up with him. Only a matter of time until his body gave out."

"Moriarty beat him," Molly said, unable to hide the cracking in her voice, "drugged him. He…Sherlock held on."

"As was his way," Mycroft muttered, "He…he couldn't out wit his health forever, Ms. Hooper."

"You sound as if you've given up on him."

"...I only accept the facts."

A silence fell between them. What was there to say, really? What is there to say in a moment like this one? When grief is the only thing on ones mind, what words of comfort could there possibly be said? Molly couldn't think of anything other than the thought of Sherlock lying in that hospital bed and Mycroft was on the brink of tears. True, his tone was cold and hopeless, but Molly knew that he was hurting just as much as she was right now. This was his flesh and blood, a man he had watched grow up; as much as he would like to hide it, he cared for Sherlock more than anything else in this world.

He was his baby brother after all.

"I…I want to see him," Molly finally spoke, giving Mycroft's hand a gentle squeeze, "I don't want to go home until I…until I do."

"Ms. Hooper," Mycroft sighed, "Please. You don't want to see him like this. This isn't Sherlock."

"I've been beside him this whole time," she pressed, sitting up a bit now, "I've taken care of him, worked with him. I'm the reason he got on that stupid boat in the first place. I-I love him, Mycroft. I love your brother with all of my heart and I want to see him. I knew where this was all going to lead, and that does not make this any easier, but I…I just need to be with him. I owe him that much."

A somber smile grew across Mycroft's lips as he slowly rose to his feet; "I shall find your doctor," he said, setting a comforting hand on her shoulder, "Let's get you formally discharged and then I will take you to see him."

It wasn't until about an hour later that the doctor approved Molly to leave her room, with the warning to take it easy for awhile. Dressed in the clean pajamas Mary had brought over for her, Molly situated herself into the awaiting wheelchair outside of her door.

"Are you ready?" Mycroft asked, taking hold of the chair handles.

"As I'll ever be, I think," she replied. Molly then reached back and placed her hand atop Mycroft's; "Thank you," she said, "for…well, for-"

"No need for that, Ms. Hooper," he said as he began to push her toward the ICU, "No need for that at all."

The journey to the ICU was a quiet one. Everything seemed so still, even for a hospital. A feeling of dread came over Molly as they came closer and closer to the ward. Her emotions bottled up in her still sore throat as they moved down the dimly lit halls, passing by the rooms of patients in various states. Molly became aware that she honestly didn't know what she would do once she saw Sherlock: would she cry? Would she demand to leave, unable to bear the sight of him in this state? She didn't know if she was truly ready to see him like this.

"Here we are," Mycroft said as they reached the appropriate door. He moved the wheelchair to be parked beside the door and then helped Molly to her feet. He took her hand into his own, gave it a gentle squeeze, then lead her inside.

John Watson was sitting at the foot of the hospital bed, gazing solemnly at the various monitors beeping beside the head of the bed. His hand was resting atop a much thinner one (Sherlock's, no doubt). At the sound of the entering footsteps, he turned to face Molly and Mycroft.

"Molly," he said, getting up and embracing her.

Molly returned the gesture with as much strength as she could, but then slowly let go as her eyes landed on the figure laying in the bed.

There he was: Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, prone in a hospital bed and looking as if as if he were in a deep, deep sleep. If it weren't for the assortment of IVs and the breathing tube protruding from his mouth, Molly would have happily assumed he was just asleep and ready to wake up at any moment. His features were completely relaxed, his arms were limply by his sides and his curls were matted down against his forehead. To say he looked sickly would be putting it lightly; he looked just as Mycroft had said. This wasn't Sherlock, just a shell of his body.

"He's…he's so small," was all Molly could say as she mindlessly made her way over to sit beside him. She sat down on the bed and took note of his body. The stab wound on his arm was properly bandaged now, as were the various knife cuts on his chest, but the bruises still stuck out against his alabaster skin. No color had returned to his cheeks since she last saw him; in fact, he looked paler.

Unsure of what else to do, Molly placed a hand on his cheek and leaned forward; "Sherlock," she whispered, completely ignoring anyone else in the room, "Sherlock, I'm here." She placed a kiss on his temple and then another atop his head; "I'm okay," she whispered into his curls, "I'm okay and…and now I need you to wake up. Please." She waited in vain for him to respond as she placed a kiss on his cheek. His skin felt so cold and clammy at her touch; so very much not like her Sherlock.

"Any change?" Mycroft asked in a low whisper as he walked over to the other side of Sherlock's bed.

"No," John replied, joining him, "The doctor was here a few minutes ago to discuss the finer points, but I can tell you that Sherlock's as stable as he can be. The frostbite is still a threat, but it's being monitored along with everything else."

"Everything else," Mycroft repeated, setting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "You mean his anemia."

"Yes," John said, "He…he has a fever; it might have been the main cause of the coma. That and the hypothermia and…God, he's been through Hell." He then turned his attention toward Molly, "You both have."

He then took a seat beside her and set a hand on her shoulder; "Molly," he said, causing her to finally turn away from Sherlock. She looked at him with a pleading expression, wordlessly begging him to do something, anything really, to fix this. He had seen that look many times on many patient's and family members of patient's, but this one. This one hurt because it was all to close to home for him.

This was Sherlock, his best friend.

This was family.

"I am glad you're okay," John whispered, holding back his own oncoming tears, "and I…I don't want to tell you this but you need to know. Sherlock-He's very sick, Molly. It's much more then either of us had feared and it won't be an easy road from here. I can't tell you when he'll wake up, but when he does, he'll need to remain in hospital for sometime. He'll need a bone marrow transplant to fight off his anemia and that could lead to many more complications. I am not saying that it defiantly will, but-In complete honesty, Molly, I don't know what's going to happen. I want to tell you that it will all be alright, but I can't. It's…It's just all a matter of waiting now."

"For what?" Mycroft asked, setting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "Please, Doctor Watson, be strictly honest with us both."

"Mycroft, please," John said, "She doesn't need to hear this now."

"No, no, I do," Molly said, taking John's hand into her's, "Is…is he going to-Am I going to loose him, John?"

John took a heavy breath and set his hands on her shoulders: "Maybe, Molly," he replied, "and, God almighty, I wish that wasn't the case. But I'm going to keep my promise to you: I'm going to help him. I won't let him go, and I know you won't either. He's going to wake up, Molly. He will."

Letting everything wash over her, Molly embraced John and began to sob, hiding her face on his shoulder.

John held her in return and let a few tears fall from his eyes as well: "I know, I know," he whispered, "I'm scared for him too."

A somber mood fell over the room.

The was only the monitors, letting them know that Sherlock was still there.

John and Molly held on to one another, completely unaware of their surroundings, while Mycroft took a seat right at the head of Sherlock's bed. He brushed aside a few curls from his baby brother's forehead and then placed a rare kiss atop it; "Do wake up, brother mine," he whispered, motioning his head toward John and Molly, "I do believe they need you."

_**So, not the most happiest way to come back to this but, alas, it's an update. Thank you all for being patient with me; I truly don't deserve it. Rest assured I have the next couple of chapters written up and ready to be typed; I went old fashioned and used pen and paper (shocking, I know). Anyway, please let me know what you thought. I know there are some questions and I will do my best to answer them. Until the next time!  
Much love and many thanks**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	27. Chapter 26: You Learn to Live Without

_**Chapter 26: You Learn to Live Without**_

"John, it's been a long time."

"Mary, what do you want me to do? Sad as it is, this is normal."

"I don't want you to do anything. I'm just worried."

"You think I'm not? Jesus Christ, Mary, he's like a brother to me!"

"I know, I'm not-"

"I hate seeing him like this and there is nothing I can do to fix him!"

"John, it's alright."

"It's not alright, Mary! It's anything but that!"

"John-"

"I've found coffee."

The hushed, yet heated, voices of the Watsons quickly silenced as Molly walked up them with two coffees in hand. They were standing just outside of the ICU entrance, taking a small break from the emotionally tense room they had all taken residence in lately.

"What were you two talking about?" Molly asked, handing Mary one of the cups of coffee, "You both looked at me like children who've been caught taking sweeties or something."

"Nothing, Molly, sorry," John quickly said, running a hand through his hair, "Mary just thinks that I can fix this."

"What?! No!" Mary responded, giving her husband a look of anger, "John, that is not even close to what I was saying. I'm worried, that's all."

"Oh for the love of God! I-" John rubbed his hands over his face and then took in a deep breath, regaining a bit of composure; "I'm just…I'm going for a walk. Tell Mycroft, when you head back in there, that I'll be back in a bit." Without another word, John stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and headed down the hall.

"He'll be back," Mary said in a softer tone as she and Molly watched him go, "you know how he gets."

"Yes," Molly sighed, "This isn't easy for him."

"It isn't easy for any of us, you especially Molly," Mary replied, "How…how are you doing? I don't think I've asked you that once."

Molly shrugged and chewed her bottom lip as she looked down at the paper cup in her hands; "I don't know," she replied, "I mean, it's all so much to swallow that I think I'm just…numb. Does that make sense?"

"It does, actually," Mary said, "You're feeling everything at once."

"Yes! Exactly," Molly said, looking at her friend, "I'm sad. I'm angry. I'm hurting. I-"

"You miss him."

Molly pondered that sentence for a moment. To miss somebody means that they have gone away. Sherlock was still here, or at least his body was. She saw him everyday and yet, she really did miss him. She missed his voice, his words, the way he'd speak a hundred words a minute when he spewing out an answer to a what he would deem stupid question. She missed his eyes and that way he'd look when he was on a case, that spark of excitement that would flash in his greenish-gray irises when he was nearing the conclusion. She missed the feeling of his hand gently holding onto her's.

She missed Sherlock Holmes.

"Molly?" Mary asked, setting a hand on her friend's shoulder, rousing her from her thoughts.

"Oh! Sorry, sorry," Molly said, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, "I just, um-Sorry."

"Hey," Mary said, hugging Molly tightly, "it's alright to cry."

Molly gladly gave into the embrace and allowed a few stray tears to escape. She tried to keep the tears to the minimum these past few days; _'What use is there in crying?' _she thought,_ 'It won't wake him up.'_

The past twelve days had put Molly in a sort of daze. She had been staying with the Watsons since her discharge from the hospital; she had tried to stay the night at 221b, but as soon as she stepped through the front door, she had fallen into Mrs. Hudson's waiting embrace and just began to sob. It felt far too wrong without Sherlock there and she just couldn't bare the thought of staying another moment at the flat without him. John and Mary immediately stepped up and offered their home to her.

"Stay as long as you like," Mary had said, "You are family, Molly."

Everyday after that was the same, beat for beat. After an early breakfast, Molly and John would head to the hospital and arrive at Sherlock's room just when visiting hours began. Mycroft would already be there, sitting beside Sherlock's bed, either on his laptop or reading the paper. He wouldn't greet them, just nod at their presence. Regardless of a _'Good Morning'_ or not, Molly would simply walk over to him and place a friendly hand on his shoulder, a small sign to show that she was here for him just as he was here for her. He never shied away from her touch; there were some mornings where Molly was even sure that he had whispered a _'Thank you, Ms. Hooper' _under his breath. Molly would then turn her attention to Sherlock and place a kiss on his cheek, whispering a_ 'Good morning, love' _as she did, then take a seat right beside him on the bed while keeping his hand gently wrapped in her's.

John would remain at the foot of the bed, holding tightly to the foot rest, as he looked over the various minters and IVs that were helping keep Sherlock alive. He was the one who had the most trouble keeping his distress over the affair contained. Yes, Molly would often began to cry and talk to Sherlock as if he could hear her and Mycroft would hide his tears behind his paper, but John seemed to be turning his distress into anger:

"He needs to be moved around! Can't risk bedsores!"

"When was the last time his IVs were checked?! Where's his nurse?!"

"When was the doctor in last?! Have they forgotten about him!?"

There were many times John would ask Mycroft if he could work out someway for him to have complete medical control over Sherlock's treatment, but surprisingly the elder Holmes would say no;

"You are too emotionally attached, Doctor Watson."

"And that's a bad thing?!"

"No, just not the right thing for now."

It wouldn't be until the late afternoon (and after dropping Harper off with Mrs. Hudson) that Mary would show up with a few sandwiches for everyone and be able to tear her husband away from the room for a bit. They would have a small chat, he'd snap at her and then head out for a walk to clear his head. In truth, John's attitude and constant frustration was worrying to Molly. His complaints made her think that there was no hope for Sherlock, that no change was ever going to come about; he simply wasn't getting any better or worse. He was just stagnant.

"We should get back," Molly sighed,pulling away from the hug just a bit, "Mycroft will be wondering where we are."

"Yes, I suppose we should," Mary sighed, "Are you going to be alright?"

"I'm fine," Molly muttered as they headed back to the room. When they reached Sherlock's room, Mycroft was leaning over his brother, a hand brushing through Sherlock's curls and the other holding tightly onto Sherlock's hand. His jacket was tossed over his chair and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He didn't look like the stoic, snobbish Englishman he often portrayed himself to be. No, in this moment, Mycroft Holmes looked like a big brother watching over his baby brother; he looked human.

"Something isn't right," he said without looking at the two women, "His fever is picking up, I'm sure of it."

Instantly, Molly ran over to the bed and placed a hand on Sherlock's stubble covered cheek; his skin did feel a bit clammy to her touch.

"Mycroft," Mary said, remaining calm, "did you call for a nurse?"

"Yes, of course I did," Mycroft snapped, "They aren't here!"

"What's going on?" John asked as he walked back into the room, "Is-Is it Sherlock? What's happened?" He immediately snapped into doctor mode and went about checking Sherlock's IVs and monitors. Neither Molly nor Mycroft moved away from Sherlock; they both seemed to be glued to their spots. They did exchange a look of worry between each other but it was a mere few seconds; they didn't want to take their eyes off of Sherlock.

In these past twelve days, very little about Sherlock's condition had changed. The threat of frostbite had passed and his body temperature had returned to a stable place. However, he had yet to show any signs of actually waking up. He was as pale as the sheets he was lying in and he was as thin as a twig. The hospital staff often assured Sherlock's small group of support that he wasn't getting any worse, but that did not put them at ease. The only thing that would comfort any of them would be for Sherlock to just wake up.

"You rang, Mr. Holmes," the nurse said as she entered the room, "What seems to be going-"

"My brother's fever is spiking," Mycroft quickly stated, "Do something!"

The nurse quickly went about checking Sherlock's IVs and monitors, but John stepped in front of her; "Everything appears to be normal," he said to her, "His vitals have not changed and he remains in stable condition."

"Well," the nurse sighed, "Mr. Watson, I would very much like to take a look at-"

"It's Doctor Watson," John quickly said, "and I am telling you that nothing has changed. Now, what I would suggest you do is go and find Sherlock's doctor and set up a rotation to keep a closer eye him. Better yet, I'll find him myself."

The nurse looked at John with a mixture of anger and hurt in her eyes. She was about to speak, but Mary quickly stepped in front of her.

"Thank you," she said, "We'll let you know if there is anything else."

"Of course," the nurse replied, "The doctor should be up shortly for the daily check up."

"Great, let's go find him shall we?" John said, pushing past the nurse. The nurse rolled her eyes and followed John out into the hall.

Once they left the room, Mycroft let out a deep sigh and sat down on the edge of Sherlock's bed, keeping his hand firmly intertwined with his brother's. Molly looked at the expression on Mycroft's face and sighed. He wasn't truly angry and or annoyed; just deeply upset. Much to Molly's surprise, Mycroft actually looked as if he were about to cry. This was a side she hadn't expected to ever see from the elder Holmes. Truth be told, there was time in which she thought it didn't even exist.

"Mycroft," Mary said, setting a hand on his shoulder, "if you want to step out for a bit-"

"I watched a nurse give him a sponge bath today," Mycroft muttered, not really addressing anyone, as he kept his gaze strongly on his brother's resting face, "I arrived earlier than usual and the nurse was finishing up with the sponge and everything and I-I honestly don't know what prompted me to watch, but I stayed in the doorway and waited until I could come in the room fully. All I could think about as I watched her clean him was when Sherlock was a baby and Mother would give him a bath in the kitchen sink. He was such a happy little thing and I used to find it so annoying. Now…now, I'd give anything to hear that little laugh again."

Surprising everyone in the room, Mycroft stood up and cupped Sherlock's face in his hands; "It's been twelve days, little brother," he muttered as he placed a kiss atop Sherlock's messy mop of curls, "do stop this." He then pulled himself away and cleared his throat; "I must be going," he said, picking up his suit jacket and briefcase, "I have an appointment."

"An…an appointment?" Mary asked, trying (albeit failing) to hide her tears, "For what?"

"Blood work, Mrs. Watson," he answered, "I have to make sure everything is in exact order if I am to be Sherlock's bone marrow donor."

"You'll…you'll do that?" Molly asked, beating herself up internally for how meek she sounded.

"He is my brother, Ms. Hooper," Mycroft stated rather plainly, "not only am I the most logical donor…this is something I need to do. You've taken care of him, Ms. Hooper, more than I have. You have been at his side constantly and I can not thank you enough for everything that you've done. I am sorry that I could not have been of more assistance to you both."

"You saved us out in the ocean," Molly said, "Mycroft, you have done so much more than you are giving yourself credit for."

"Hardly, Ms. Hooper," he sighed. He then looked solemnly at Sherlock and then back at her: "My brother has always been a better man then me; I'll never say that to him, mind you, but it is the truth. And there is no more exact proof to that then the woman he has chosen to spend his life with."

Molly let out a small gasp of surprise, tears welling up in her eyes: "Mycroft, I…I don't-"

"There is nothing to say, Ms. Hooper." he said, "Nothing at all." And with that, Mycroft left the room, letting Molly and Mary sit with the their thoughts.

"God, this is getting ridiculous," John quickly said as he stormed back into the room, "Fever scares, imbecilic nurses, and that doctor! HA! Hard to believe that man earned a medical degree. God damn it, this is all pointless!" He then quickly turned around and slammed his hands down on the railing at the foot of Sherlock's bed, causing both Mary and Molly to jump; "He's not going to wake up." he snapped, "He's not!"

"John," Mary said with a bit of warning to her tone, "Not here."

"Yes here, Mary! I will say it here!" John went on, "This game can't keep going on! I can't handle looking at him like this anymore!"

"And you think I can?!" Molly snapped, raising up from her spot on the bed, "You think I can sit here and just accept what is happening, John!? You think that I can accept all of this?! The love of my life is laying in a hospital bed, surviving only by the aide of a couple of machines, and I can't do a damn thing to help him! I've been helping him this whole time, at least trying my best to, and now I have to sit here and see that it was all for nothing! He still ended up like this!

So, I understand your pain, John Watson. I understand where you are coming from. But do not, do not for one second think that this is the end! He will pull through and he will wake up! And if you have given up on him-and I pray to God that you truly haven't-then get the hell out!"

John looked at her in utter shock, unable to speak. How could he after that?

"John, leave," Mary said, stepping in front of her husband and placing a hand on his chest, "Don't say another word. Just step out."

John looked to his wife and then stormed out of the room. Molly watched him go and then sat back down on Sherlock's bed. Her shoulders were shaking with all of her pent up emotion. She truly hadn't expected to go off like that but she just couldn't keep it all in any longer.

"Molly," Mary began after a few minutes of silence, "do…do you want-"

"Mary, can you just-can you give me a moment with…with Sherlock?" Molly asked, closing her eyes as so to hold back tears, "Maybe go get John and, I don't know, tell him...tell him that I-I don't know just…just-"

"I'll go and talk to him," Mary replied, "but...Molly?" She took a seat beside her friend and placed both her hands on Molly's shoulders; "What John just said," she went on, "that was out of line. Are you alright, truly?"

"I'm-I'll be fine," Molly replied, still not opening her eyes, "I just…I want to be here with him, with Sherlock."

Mary sighed and went out to follow John. Once she was alone, Molly turned her attention to Sherlock. She solemnly looked at his resting face, wanting so badly to look into his eyes again. Very carefully, Molly situated herself to lay down beside him being mindful of his various IVs. She snuggled up close to his body and rested her hand over his chest. She could feel his heart slowly beating as she placed a kiss on his stubble covered cheek.

"You know, before you took this case, when you were first getting sick," Molly said to him, believing that he was hearing her, "You would say that you were fine all the time. I'd notice you swaying in the kitchen or coughing up a storm in the bathroom, but you would keep saying_ 'Molly, I'm fine.' _I knew that you were putting up a front and I think you knew that I knew. God, I hated it when you'd say that because…because you weren't fine. And now…now you're really not fine. God, you would say that I'm rambling right now and you'd be right. You're always right."

"I think you should know that I yelled at John. I think you would have yelled at him too-No, no, what am I saying? You yelling at John Watson? Never. You would never yell at your John. But, Sherlock, he made me so angry just now. It's not his fault, I know; he's grieving and hurting, just like I am…like we all are."

She let a small smile grow across her lips as she brushed her fingers through his curls; "Sherlock, love, you…you know that I want you to wake up. God, I want that more than anything in the world. But until then, I have to accept that this is you now. I don't have to like it, but-God, Sherlock, I miss you so much."

It was then that Molly let her guard down completely. Tears flowed from her eyes at a constant out pour. She clutched onto Sherlock like a little child clinging to pillow after a nightmare. Nuzzling her head in between Sherlock's shoulder and neck, Molly placed kiss after kiss upon his cheek.

"I miss you so much William Sherlock Scott Holmes," she whispered, "John misses you and Mary and Mycroft-Oh God, Mycroft. Your brother loves you so much, Sherlock. When you wake up-and you will wake up God damn it-Mycroft is going to donate marrow to help you get better and stay better. It's like I've said to you so many times before, we are going to get through this and we are, love, we really are. You are going to get better and I will not let you slip away again.

I love you so much, Sherlock. Please, just…just wake up for me."

She didn't know how long she had laid there just crying onto Sherlock's shoulder and, frankly, she didn't care. All Molly wanted to do was stay with him. She never wanted to leave his side again.

"Molly,"

A soft voice and a hand on her shoulder stirred Molly from her state. She opened her eyes and turned her head to face the speaker. Much to her surprise, John was the one sitting beside her. His eyes were red from crying and his cheeks were stained with tear drops. For the first time in twelve days, John seemed to have finally broken down.

"Molly, I am so sorry," he breathed out, but before he could continue, Molly sat up and embraced him, hiding his face on his shoulder. John returned the gesture and held her close

"Shh, now, it's alright," John said, rubbing his hands up and down Molly's back in comfort, "You just cry, okay? There is no shame that. Don't hold it back. You can just cry."

They stayed like this for countless minutes, each finally letting their walls down.

"It…it seems silly to say,"John whispered,"but I think he knows you're here."

"If he does then why won't he wake up?" Molly asked.

"I don't know," he said, holding her tightly, "I really don't. Just stubborn, I guess."

"John?"

"Yeah?"  
"We're not going to loose him."

"I know that. I truly do."

_**Okay so lots of emotion in there. It was hard to get the right tone of all of this; a situation like this one is hard to transcribe. Hopefully I was able to translate it well. Let me know what you think; I do love hearing from you guys. We are coming toward the end, I must say, of this tale. Still some questions to be answered, yes, and I have a plan. See you in the next update.**_

_**Much love and many thanks**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	28. Chapter 27: And The Moment Explodes

_**Chapter 27: And the Moment Explodes**_

It had now been a total of fourteen days since Sherlock and Molly were rescued at sea. They regular routine of visiting Sherlock's bedside had continued on, but there were some changes. John was less agitated and snappish toward the hospital staff (and Molly), keeping a tighter lid on his temper than before. Mary had brought little Harper by a few times, but the child didn't understand why her godfather wouldn't wake up to see her.

"Shr," she cooed, reaching a pudgy hand out to him, "Shr, up."

"Oh, sweetie, your Uncle Sherlock, well, he-he can't wake up just now," Molly would try to explain, "but I know that he would be so happy to see you. When he wakes up, and he will, I'll…I'll tell him you were here."

It was becoming harder and harder for Molly to keep strong. Each day was a new challenge for her; the tears were becoming harder to keep at bay and hope was slowly fading. She wanted with all of her heart to just walk into the ICU one morning and find Sherlock awake and waiting for her, but she knew that it couldn't happen. She would lay awake at night just thinking about what she would do when this was all over.

What would she do in a world without Sherlock?

As for the case that had brought them to this position, it seemed to finally be coming to a close. There was no word on if Scotland Yard had found any trace that Anna was still alive, however, they were able to find Moriarty's body, or rather what remained of it. The good Detective Inspector was kind enough to deliver the news to everyone in person.

"It's him. We are absolutely sure of it," Lestrade had said when he came by Sherlock's room.

"So, it's over," Mary sighed, grabbing hold of John's hand for comfort.

"No," Molly was quick to reply, keeping her eyes fixed on Sherlock, "It's not over until Sherlock wakes up."

She was right. For her, this case would not be closed until Sherlock was back in 221b, safe and awake. Otherwise, what would this all of been for?

"No change then?" Lestrade sheepishly asked, "He's still…well, I mean, I can see that he's still…what I mean is-"

"He is progressing, or so the doctor has told us," Mycroft said as he studied the monitor that kept track of his brother's heart rate, "He is responding well to the various medications they are giving him and should be able to accept the marrow transplant when he awakens. No fever, no worsening of his previous condition, and he is slowly beginning to respond to outside stimuli much better than before."

"He's just still asleep," Molly muttered as she wrapped her hand around Sherlock's.

"And what about you, Mycroft?" John asked from normal his spot at the foot of Sherlock's bed, "Is everything in order for you to donate?"

"Yes, it would appear so," Mycroft replied with a sigh, "The timing now all rests with my brother." He then gave Sherlock's hand a tight squeeze and then cleared his throat: "Detective Inspector, if you would be so kind as to escort me to the morgue," he went on, "I should like to deal with Moriarty's remains myself."

"Yeah, of course," Lestrade said, "I'll go bring the car around." Just before he head out, Lestrade walked over to Sherlock's bedside and gave the man's shoulder a hardy pat; "Get well soon, yeah," he said, "We need you." He then gave Molly a sympathetic smile and left the room.

"Do let me know if there is anything more while I am out." Mycroft said, putting on his coat, "The doctor had mentioned that they might run some more tests this evening."

"Of course," Molly replied, "And Mycroft? I know you don't like me saying it, but thank you."

"As I keep reminding you, Ms. Hooper, there is no need for that." And with that, Mycroft gave the small group a nod and left.

"He certainly knows how to just make an exit," Mary said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

John gave his wife a smile and chuckled: "Well, it wouldn't be the Holmes way to just walk out, now would it?" he said, patting Sherlock's leg, "Drama is second nature to them."

Mary nodded and then turned attention to Molly: "What are you thinking?" she asked, "If he is progressing, then it shouldn't be long now. Am I right or is wishful thinking clouding logic?"

"I think, while he's asleep, we can all afford to believe in a bit of wishful thinking," Molly said with a small smile, "Just don't tell Sherlock about it when he wakes up." She then turned her gaze to the sleeping man beside her; "I think he's still in there," she went on, "He'll wake up in his own time and…and I'll be here. I have to be here."

"You are a brave woman, Molly Hooper," Mary said as she walked over to Sherlock's bedside. She then leaned over him and looked sternly down at him: "You hear that, you git." she said, "You've got quiet the catch here. When this is all over and done with, Sherlock Holmes, you better marry this woman." Mary then placed a friendly kiss on the detective's forehead then turned toward her husband: "You sure you'll be alright if I head out now?" she asked, "It's earlier than usual."

"Go, I'll be fine," he said, "Go get Harper and head home. Tell that she can come by tomorrow if she likes. I'll let you know if there is any change tonight."

Mary nodded and then looked back at Molly: "Call me, yeah?" she urged, "If you want to just talk or vent; I'll be there."

"I know you will," Molly replied, "thank you."

"Anytime." Mary then gave her husband a small kiss on the lips and then headed out of the room.

"And then there were three," Molly yawned, leaning back in her chair all the way.

"Why don't you get some rest?" John asked, "I'll push a couple of these chairs together so you can lay down."

"You…you won't mind?" she asked, sheepishly. She was feeling rather tired; it would seem that the past sleepless nights were catching up with her.

"No, not at all," John said, "You rest and I'll wake you if there is anything, okay?"

"Well, alright, if you really don't mind it."

"Go ahead, you've earned it."

* * *

It was nearing the end of visiting hours. The sun had set and the bustle of the hospital ward was slowly beginning to shift gears as the night staff was clocking in. Molly was still sound asleep across the chairs John had set up and John, himself, had dozed off in his own chair beside Sherlock's bed. It had seemed that the emotional exhaustion had finally got the best of both of them.

Unsure as to why or what had caused him to wake up, John let out a small yawn and stretched out his back. He looked down at his watch, mentally logging the time, and then toward the still sleeping form of Molly. He didn't want to wake her, but he figured that it would be better if he did instead of a nurse who would be telling them that visiting hours were over in 15 minutes. As John let out another yawn as he stretched out again, he thought he heard a soft hitch of breath coming from Sherlock's bed. Assuming that it was just one of the noises the ventilator makes to show that it's working, John turned his gaze to Sherlock.

Sherlock was looking right back at him.

His eyes were about halfway opened and slightly clouded, blinking slowly like a child who had just awoken from a long afternoon sleep. He had slowly lifted his hand just a few inches from the mattress and out toward John, trying to take a hold of his hand (or so it seemed). He seemed to be aware of who he was looking at; it sounded like he was attempting to say _'John'_, but nothing could be understood while the breathing tube was in his mouth. Never the less, John instantly sprung up from his chair and took the his best friend's hand into his own.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" he asked, "Squeeze my hand if you can. Don't try to speak, alright?"

After a few beats, Sherlock very gently squeezed John's hand.

"Good," John breathed out in relief, "Real good, Sherlock. Oh my God, you-Jesus Christ, you gave me a fright. Welcome back, Sherlock." He raised his free hand up and gently cupped the side of Sherlock's face; "I'm going to call for a nurse, alright? Stay with me for as long as you can."

It sounded as though Sherlock gave off a soft moan of agreement as he lazily nodded.

John then removed his hand from Sherlock's cheek and pressed the call button; "It's good to see you," he said, taking Sherlock's hand into both of his now, "Stupid thing to say, I know, but I mean it. I…I hate to admit it, but I was starting to think you wouldn't wake up."

Sherlock let out a groan and furrowed his brow.

"What is it?" John asked, leaning in close, "The nurse will be here soon and take that tube out, alright? Try to stay calm until then."

Sherlock's fingers began to twitch in John's hold as if he wanted his hand to be released. Not wanting to upset him, John let go Sherlock's hand, but, to his surprise, the detective did not pull his hand away. Instead, Sherlock moved his shaking fingers so that were against John's palm. Very slowly, Sherlock then began to move his fingers in a pattern of shapes; very strategic and very precise.

"You're…you're signing," John said with a chuckle of disbelief, "God, Sherlock, only you would start to sign after being in a coma for two weeks. Incredible, truly. This is good, beyond good actually."

Sherlock let out a grunt and then repeated the pattern with a bit more pressure.

"Okay, okay, sorry. I'll pay attention," John said, shaking his head, "Right, okay. So, you're spelling out something."

John was then surprised to see that Sherlock managed to slowly roll his eyes and give out a groan of what could only be described as annoyance in his extremely frail state.

"Jesus, really?_ 'the look'_," John said, "You've got enough energy to give me _'the look' _?"

Sherlock grunted again in frustration.

"Right, right, the signing." John replied, "You'll have to be patient with me, Sherlock, I'm not as quick with this as you are. Okay, so here we go:…**M**…**O**…**L**…Oh, of course." John let out a sigh then smiled; "Molly. You're asking for Molly."

To the best of his ability, Sherlock nodded.

"Then, if you can, just look toward the end of your bed." John replied, "She's here. She hasn't left your side."

Sherlock's eyes wandered toward the foot of his bed until they spotted the curled up figure in the chairs facing toward his bed.

Molly was sound asleep, curled up in a ball and wrapped up in her coat. Even in his weak state, Sherlock could see that she was healthy and, most importantly, safe.

"I'm going to wake her, alright?" John said, slowly letting go of Sherlock's hand, "She'll want to see you and I have a feeling that you want to see her."  
Sherlock nodded and blinked his heavy eyelids a few times. Try as he did, he struggled to keep his eyes open all the way. He wanted to see Molly, really see her, and let her know he was alright…well, for the most tried to say her name, but was painfully reminded of the tube lodged in his windpipe. He started to gag just as a nurse walked in.

"Now, no need to worry, Mr. Holmes," she said as she walked straight over to his bedside, "I'll get you all set in no time. Just stay calm while I run a couple quick tests." As she went about the process of removing the tube from Sherlock's mouth, the detective kept his hazy gaze on the woman being awoken just a few feet from him.

"Molly," John cooed, gently shaking Molly's shoulder, "wake up."

"Hmm, John?" Molly grumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, "Is it time to go? I-" Before she could finish, her eyes instantly looked with Sherlock's and she let out a deep sigh of relief; "Sherlock," she breathed out as she sprung up and rushed to his bedside, "Sherlock, can…can you-Oh my God, it's really you." She grabbed his hand and instantly started to sob as she placed kiss after kiss all along the heel of his palm.

"Careful now," the nurse said, "I'm going to be removing his breathing tube."

Reluctantly, Molly stepped away from Sherlock, but kept her eyes locked with his. He looked back at her, still keeping his hand out to her as if he were reaching out for her to take it. Once the nurse had removed the tube from his throat, Sherlock let out a gruff cough and Molly instantly went back to his side.

"Hey, hey, I'm here," she cooed, taking his hand again, "I'm right here, Sherlock."

Sherlock let out a groan as the nurse set up an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. His head lulled about a bit, eyes starting to close once again. He gave Molly's hand a tight squeeze, wordlessly telling her that he knew she was there.

"Shh, it's alright. You're alright, love, " Molly whispered, leaning down and placing a kiss on his cheek, "God, I've missed you so much. I thought you weren't coming back."

Sherlock slowly nuzzled his forehead against her's and closed his eyes all the way, falling back into a peaceful sleep. Molly looked down at his resting face and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. For the first time in two weeks, he squeezed back.

"He'll rest a bit longer," John said, setting a hand on Molly's shoulder, "It's okay for him to fall back asleep."

"No, I know, I know." she said, sitting up, "It's just…John, we got him back."

"Yeah, Molly, we did." he replied, finally letting his own happy tears flow, "Yeah, we did."

* * *

"Fourteen days," Mycroft said the next morning as he stood beside Sherlock's bed, one hand atop his brother's shoulder, "I have sent him on top secret missions that even our best agents would pass up due to the risk and I have watched him take down an entire criminal network single-handedly. None of that had made me fear for his life more then I have these past fourteen days."

"There is still a long road to go," John said from his spot at the foot of Sherlock's bed, "He's breathing on his own quite well; the switch from the mask to the nasal cannula is a good sign. They'll better testing the motor skills as begins to stay awake longer. Once they determine he is fit for it, the doctors will want to get started with the bone marrow transplant. After that, then there's the recovery stage and then, well, who knows. "

"But he's awake," Molly said from her spot on Sherlock's right, "That's good enough for me right now."

"Indeed," Mycroft replied,giving her a soft (and rare) smile, "were you able to speak with him?"

"No, but he was signing," John said with a chuckle, "Can you believe that? Fourteen days in a deep comatose state and the bastard wakes up remembering how to spell in sign language."

"He was just awake for a few moments." Molly said, "He drifted off once the nurse had set up the oxygen mask."

"I see," Mycroft said with a nod, "and he seemed…coherent?"

"For the most part," John replied, "There's no way to tell just yet if his brain function is back to normal, but I have high hopes for him. The signing, for God's sake. In all my medical experience, I have never heard of someone waking up from a coma and beginning to sign."

"Or roll their eyes at you?" Molly teased.

"Oh, mustn't forget that," John chuckled, "Good to know that his attitude is still as sharp as ever."

"But did he know where he was?" Mycroft pressed, "Did he seem to be aware of surroundings?"

"It was hard to tell, in all honesty," John replied, furrowing his brow, "Why do you ask?"

Mycroft sighed heavily, running his hand over his face; "Perhaps I am being paranoid," he explained, "When Sherlock was in rehab, once the withdrawal really starting kicking in, there were times when he…he had no idea where he was or how he had got there. It was if it all had been whipped from his memory. My concern, Doctor Watson, is that this may bare the same result. What if when he wakes up again and he doesn't remember?"

"But that could have been a combination of things," Molly said, trying to sound hopeful, "I've told you what we learned about his doctor; the man was messing with his patient's brains. Who knows what he was doing to Sherlock."

"Mycroft," John said in a serious tone, "if there are any complications-and I don't doubt that there will be some-then we will handle it. All of us, alright? We'll be there for him, just like we are now."

Mycroft gave a worried glance toward John and nodded: "Perhaps, I am worrying too much," he said as he headed for the door.

"Sentiment," Molly said, giving him a smile.

Before Mycroft could respond to her, Sherlock let out a soft moan, causing the small gathering to turn all their attention to him. They watch in anticipation as he stirred slightly for a bit and moved his head about from left to right. After a few moments, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open. He looked up at the ceiling and then around the room, taking in the small details. His forehead furrowed a bit, but then relaxed as if his gaze landed on his brother.

"Hello, baby brother," Mycroft said, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and holding Sherlock's hand tightly, "can you hear me?"

Sherlock nodded, letting out deep breath.

"Good, good. Well done," Mycroft said, a few tears escaping down his cheeks, "You were asleep, baby brother, for a long time. You have been very sick and I was afraid for you; we all were."

Sherlock furrowed his brow again as if to wordlessly ask what Mycroft meant.

"You are in hospital, Sherlock," Mycroft said, "do you remember the case you were working on? Moriarty's return?"

Still looking confused, Sherlock squeezed his brother's hand and nodded again.

"You had contacted me to come and find you and Ms. Hooper," Mycroft continued, "Do you remember that? You were at sea, adrift in a life boat, and we brought you both here back to London; myself, Detective Inspector Lestrade, John Watson, we all were part of the team that brought you home. You've been in a coma for two weeks, baby brother, but you haven't been alone. Look, can you see? John Watson is right here at the foot of your bed."

With a sigh, Sherlock turned his gaze toward John.

"Hey Sherlock," John replied, walking over to stand beside Mycroft, "It's good to see you. Do you remember seeing me last night when you woke up?"

Sherlock furrowed his brow even deeper and let out a few disgruntled grunts. It was clear in his eyes that he was trying to piece together what had happened and what questions he was being asked now, but his mind wasn't working at a speed he was used to. He looked very much like a toddler who was beyond frustrated with his small world, longing to understand the bigger one around him.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" Mycroft asked, gently setting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "Tell me. Are you in pain?"

Sherlock groaned again and shook his head.

"I'm going to grab a nurse." John said, already heading for the door, but seeing Sherlock shaking his head again made him stop in his tracks.

"Sherlock, it's okay," Mycroft said, "You don't have to fight to stay awake right now, if that is what's troubling you. Just relax and we can talk more when you're feeling up to it, okay? No need to-"

"Molly."

The hoarse yet soft sound of Sherlock's voice took everyone by surprise, especial the woman he was calling for. She had refrained from making her presence known in fear of frustrating him even more, but now Molly was completely taken back. She stared at him, wide-eyed and a bit in shock; she hadn't expected him to speak, let alone say her name.

Taking in the response (or lack there of), Sherlock relaxed his features and let out a heavy sigh; "Sorry" he managed to whisper.

"No, no, there is nothing to apologize for," John quickly replied, "I don't think any of us would have guessed that that would be the first thing you'd say. I imagined it would be, something along the lines of _'Hospitals are idiotic. Get me out of here.' _or _'Get this thing out of my nose, I have work to do.'"_

Sherlock chuckled a bit but that erupted into a small coughing fit. Once he was finished, he spoke again;

"Mycroft," he whispered, "Wh-where's…Molly?"

"Sherlock, love, it's me," Molly said, finally finding the strength to speak as she leaned forward so that she could be as close to him as possible, "I'm here. I'm right here."

Sherlock moved his head around a bit until his eyes met Molly's. He blinked a few times as a simple smile grew across his lips. His features relaxed and he was much more at easy. He held his free hand out to her and Molly gladly took it into both of her own, placing a kiss atop his knuckles.

"She hasn't left your side," Mycroft said, "The moment she was discharged, she demanded to be with you. Would you like John and I to leave you two for the moment?"

Sherlock turned his gaze back to his brother, wordlessly giving him his answer.

Mycroft nodded and rose to his feet; "We'll be just outside the room," Mycroft said, giving Sherlock's shoulder a soft squeeze, "I am happy to see you, baby brother. You…you can't imagine how happy I actually am to hear your voice." He patted his brother's shoulder and then headed out of the room, pulling out his cell phone to make a call to their parents.

"I'm going to give Mary a call," John said, stepping forward a bit, "She'll be by in a few if that's alright, Sherlock? She'll want to see you."

"John," Sherlock whispered, slightly moving his head toward Molly,

"Right, right, I'm going," John said with a laugh, "God, sorry I for trying to talk to my best friend who I thought was going to, once again, die on me."

Sherlock chuckled a bit as John took a hold of his free hand and gave it a tight squeeze. He then nodded toward Molly, who was anxiously waiting for her time alone with Sherlock, and then headed out of the room.

Once they were alone, Molly took a seat on the bed and rested both of Sherlock's hands in her lap; "How…how do you feel?" she asked, studying their intertwined fingers, "Groggy? Feverish? Are you really even awake or just sort of awake?"

"Don't know," Sherlock sighed. His eyes then wandered to the various IVs attached to his arm and then followed the tubing up to the bags of clear liquid hanging beside his bed.

"There is a bunch of different things being transfused into you," Molly explained, answering his unspoken questions, "I know, how very unlike a trained medical professional of me for say, but I honestly lost track. It's in your file, I know that. Your brain must be in a bit of fog, though. Is it frustrating for you? To feel like this?"

He nodded and looked back at her. Their eyes met and Molly almost felt like the world was back to normal again. _'If only we could get out of this hospital.' _she thought,_ 'If only I could bring you home to heal.'_

"The nurses took your mask off during the night," she said, "Can you imagine my fear when I came in here this morning and saw them taking your oxygen away? I nearly burst into tears. I thought…I thought that was it. I thought you had drifted off to sleep and that was it. You were gone and all I got to see of you was that moment last night. You left and I didn't get to say goodbye."

Sherlock let out a soft grunt as he turned himself on his side to the best of his ability. He then took both of Molly's hands into his own and placed a soft kiss on the heel of each palm. He then gently pulled her arms toward him a bit, trying to bring her in to lay down beside him. Molly gladly obliged, being mindful of his IVs, situation herself so to lay as close to him as possible. Sherlock managed to wrap an arm over her waist as she placed both of her hands on his chest.

"I don't think your doctor will approve of this," Molly said.

"Screw it," Sherlock breathed out, nuzzling his forehead against hers.

Molly let out a soft laugh as she ran her fingers over the collar of his hospital gown: "You know what," she said after a few minutes of quiet, "I was thinking about it all last night; what was I going to say to you when you woke up? Now, it seems, I have nothing. Silly, right?"

Sherlock just smiled and shook his head; "No matter," he whispered. He then let out a deep sigh as if he were about to ask her a very serious question.

"What is it?" she asked before he could utter a word, "Something the matter?"

Sherlock shook his head as he took her hand into his again; "Molly," he said, "Two…two weeks?"

"What about the two weeks?" she asked, a bit of worry filling her mind,

"Me," he said, "A…a coma?"

"Oh, yes, you…you've been in a coma, Sherlock." she tried to explain, "It's been two weeks since Moriarty, well, tried to blow us up, to put it frankly. Mycroft explained to me the all of the details of the rescue, but…well, I was bit like you are now when he told me; I had just woken up myself and all of this information was being told to me. I mean, I wasn't in a coma like you. I meant that I was confused like you are now. Not saying that you are completely confused right now, but-"

Sherlock's light laugh made Molly stop mid-thought. It had been ages since she had heard that laugh and, although it was small and a bit raspy at the moment, it still brought her joy. She smiled back at Sherlock and just shook her head.

"I was rambling," she admitted, "sorry."

"Don't be," he replied. He then leaned forward, closing in the small gap between them, and placed a kiss on her forehead.

Molly let out a deep breath and closed her eyes; she had missed those lips against her skin. In response, Molly lifted her head up and met his lips with her own. They shared a soft kiss, both wanting so much more but they knew that now wasn't the time or place.

They needed to be home.

They needed to be back at Baker Street.

"'m sorry," Sherlock whispered when they finally broke apart.

"For what?" she asked, setting her hands on his chest again.

"The case," he said, "I…should have left…it."

"Sherlock," Molly said, "we're here now. We're alive and safe. Moriarty is gone and the case is over." She then placed a hand on his cheek, causing him to open his eyes again about halfway; "You have nothing to apologize for, not right now," she said, brushing her thumb over his cheek, "Now, we're going to focus on getting you home, okay? Let's not think about that case or what might have happened. You're here and you're alive. That's enough for me."

Sherlock closed his eyes and nuzzled his forehead against hers; "Stay?" he asked her, already drifting back asleep.

"Of course," she replied, stealing another soft kiss, "I'm not going anywhere."

_**There we go. A bit of a long update for you guys. This all came out much more fluffier then I had anticipated but I thought there needed to be a bit more light as opposed to what's been happening in recent chapters. There's more of a road to be traveled with this story, but we are coming to a close. Please let me know what you think; I always love hearing from you guys. **_

_**Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	29. Chapter 28: While You Can

_**Chapter 28: While You Can**_

Sherlock stared blankly at the newly added IV drip that had been set up beside him. He watched as the substance trickled in the bag, bit by bit, and traveled through the thin tube that was connected to his body. His mind was clouded by a mixed fog of pain and morphine. In a way, he felt as if he were in some form of a trance; aware of his surroundings, but too relaxed to respond. No, not relaxed; he was in too much pain to even consider the thought of being relaxed. He had been told that the bone marrow transplant was not going to be easy, but words can never match the actual situation.

"It'll be like a blood transfusion only tougher." the doctor had explained while he was setting it up, "You're body is going to be fighting the whole time so be prepared for some discomfort. If you feel as if there is anything wrong, please do not hesitate to press the call button."

If he had the energy at the time, Sherlock would have told the doctor how idiotic that suggestion was. Of course he was going to feel as if something was wrong; his whole body felt wrong which is why this process was necessary. Despite his annoyance, though, Sherlock kept his mouth shut and just gave in to the whole situation.

For days and days now, Sherlock's life had become a simple, three step routine: wake up, have the doctor's run tests, go back to sleep. He didn't have the energy for anything else and even if he did, it was highly unlikely anyone would let him. He felt like an invalid laying in that hospital bed. He wanted to move around, get his legs working again and breathe the London air once more. It had been too long since he had seen something other than his hospital room. Sometimes, he'd wonder if he'd ever get out of this room or if he'd ever take on another case. He knew that he was in a bad way and there could very well be no end in sight.

He was never alone, though; the Watsons or Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft were always at his side. And, of course, he had Molly. She never left him; she was there when he'd drift off to sleep and there when he'd wake. It wasn't until today, three days after he had woken up, that Molly wasn't at his side. She and Mary had gone to Baker Street to retrieve some of Sherlock's clothes so that he would be more comfortable. She had left a note stating that she'd be by in the evening, but Sherlock didn't actually mind. He wanted her to be out, not trapped at his side while his body tried to build itself back up.

He didn't want her to see him this broken.

"The doctor will be in shortly to check up on you," John said looking over the monitors, "How you feeling?"

"Hmm," Sherlock grunted, lazily brushing a hand through the air, "fine."

"Liar." John chuckled, taking a seat right at the edge of the bed.

"Am I that obvious?" Sherlock sighed, "I must be getting sloppy." He gave his friend a small smile but then turned his attention back to the IV.

"Your numbers are up," John said after a few moments of quiet, "and it seems your body is reacting well to the transplant."

"I'd hope so." Sherlock sighed, "Mycroft is my brother and thus the ideal donor."

"He cares about you," John replied, "despite whatever air the two of you put on: you care about one another."

"Hmm,well,this couldn't have been easy on his body," Sherlock sighed, leaning back against his pillows, "Suppose I should thank him next time he's here."

"You should." John persisted. He would have pushed the topic further if he hadn't noticed Sherlock's eyelids drooping; "Is it the morphine that's making you tired?"

"Mhm," Sherlock grunted, giving in to his fatigue and allowing his eyes to close, "It's fine."

"Is it making you groggy?" John asked, "If you want, I'm sure we can talk to your doctor about lessening the dose."

"Lessen the dose?" Sherlock chuckled, "Why would I want that?"

"Sorry," John replied with a roll of his eyes, "I forgot about the relationship you have with morphine."

"Is that what we're calling my addiction now?" Sherlock slurred, already beginning to drift off to sleep.

John shook his head and looked down in his lap; "I'm sure Molly's over the moon to see how well you're doing," he said, happy to change the subject, "We all are."

"How well I'm doing." Sherlock repeated with a small chuckle, "Funny."

"Seriously, Sherlock, I know you don't think so, but you are recovering really well," John went on, "You're awake, you're speaking in coherent, full sentences and you'll be able to start walking about in a few days. This is all very good."

"So you keep saying." Sherlock sighed

"At this rate, I think you'll be headed home soon." John said, "They'll have to run a few more tests, but you'll be back at Baker Street before you know it."

"And then what?" Sherlock asked, "I'm sure there is a bit of follow-up."

"Well, even though the transplant appears to be working, you're not fully healed. In truth, Sherlock, you'll most likely suffer from this illness for the rest of your life."

"Hmm, well, at least my future will be interesting."

John shook his head and looked at his friend's blank and peaceful expression. If it wasn't for the tapping of his fingers against the sheets, John would of sworn that Sherlock had drifted off to sleep. There was something about his tone just now that worried John. It seemed as if he didn't care at all: not about going home, being better, any of it. With a heavy sigh, John continued; "You look so different," he said solemnly, "Stupid thing to say, yes, but you really do."

"It's the facial hair, hmm?" Sherlock said, "Molly seems to like it."

"No, I mean, you don't look like you anymore." John clarified, "You look smaller and…and, well, broken. Usually, you look like you can push through anything. I mean, I've _seen_ you fight through a bullet to the chest, internal bleeding, a drug overdose, but now-Christ, Sherlock, I thought you had stopped fighting this time. I really did."

At that, Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his gaze toward John. He studied his friend's expression, taking in every detail that his addled brain would allow and then let out a sigh; "Well, look at that," he said, a small, half-mouth smile growing across his lips, "my Boswell is learning."

"Your what?" John asked.

"My Boswell. That's you." Sherlock said, lazily waving his hand toward John, "My companion, my confidant, my…admirer."

"Admirer, well," John chuckled, "don't tell my wife."

"You know what I mean," Sherlock sighed, "You know me, better than most I would say. Well, with the exception of Molly."

"Yes, I suppose so," John said, furrowing his brow, "but I don't know what you're-"

"Why haven't you asked me about that text?"

John paused for a moment and took in a deep breath. He knew what Sherlock was referring to and he had hoped that they weren't going to discuss it; he was hoping that Sherlock had forgotten about it completely.

"I sent Lestrade a text telling him to contact Mycroft for the location to come and find Molly and I," Sherlock went on, "I told him to bring you."

"Sherlock," John sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "we don't have to go into this."

"He obviously followed my instructions," Sherlock continued, "and I don't doubt that he showed you the text that I sent just moments after."  
"Sherlock, can we-"

"'_Don't try to save me. Take care of Molly.'_"

"Sherlock, please-"

"Ask me, John."

John looked at Sherlock and sighed heavily. The words he wanted to say were just on the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn't bring himself to speak. He took a few moments to collect his thoughts and then spoke very carefully: "Sherlock, did…did you want to die that night?"

Sherlock took in a deep breath and lazily set his hand atop John's; "Yes," he sighed after a few minutes of silence, "I was in so much pain, John. Everything falling apart around me and the case-God, this case. When I was on that boat, I was loosing my mind. I couldn't think or…or stay awake. John, I let people die because I was too weak to fight Moriarty."

"Molly told us about the beatings and the drugs," John said, shaking his head in disbelief, "Sherlock, that mad man was going to kill those people regardless if you had been well or not."

"They were there because of me, John," Sherlock said, "I was the reason they were brought on board and I couldn't help them. Look at me. I'm not the man I was before and I…I didn't think I could ever be that man again. So, yes, I did want to die that night. I've wanted to die since the moment you diagnosed me. I wanted to end it all right there on the deck of that boat. I accepted my fate and…and I was ready to let go."

"You…you sound like you've changed your mind since then," John said, taking a firm hold of his hand now, "Please God, tell me you have."

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh as he looked back at the IV set up beside him. After a few moments of quiet, he gave John's hand a small squeeze and motioned his head toward the small bedside table: "Did you see the envelope Mycroft dropped off?" he asked, referring to the manila shipping envelope resting beside his water glass, "He dropped it off this morning."

"Um, yeah," John said, "and as much as I'd love to have a conversation with you about everyday things like this, I would much rather discuss-"

"Can you open it for me?"

"Sorry?"

"The envelope. Can you open it for me?"

Thoroughly confused at this point, John picked up the envelope and ripped open the top of it. He peered at it's contents, furrowed his brow, and then looked back at Sherlock; "I don't get it," he said, "is it a clue or something?"

Sherlock chuckled lightly as he shook his head; "Nothing like that," he said, "Take it out and open it."

John reached inside the envelope and pulled out a small wooden cube. He folded it over in his hands a few times, taking note of how light weight it was, and then carefully removed the top. He looked at the cube's contents and let out a small laugh; "Well, when you said I was your admirer, I guess you weren't joking," he said, looking back at Sherlock, "but you do know that I'm already married? A diamond ring isn't really appropriate."

"Funny," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes a bit, "but it's not for you."

"Yeah, no, I figured that," John replied, "Sherlock is…is this what I think it is?"

"It's my mother's engagement ring," Sherlock said, "My mother had given it to Mycroft in hopes that her oldest son would pass it on to the woman he'd marry. I don't need to tell you how improbable that scenario is. Naturally, it has been sitting in his safe for years. A few mornings ago, before you and Molly had arrived to visit me, I asked him for it because I intend on making use of it. I intend on giving it to Molly."

John looked at Sherlock in absolute shock. Had he seriously just heard that? Sherlock was thinking of…purposing?

"You're serious?" he asked, "Sorry, I know that's not the best response, but-Sherlock, are you asking Molly to marry you?"

"I already have," Sherlock said, "on the boat, I told her that I wanted to spend forever with her. That's a proposal, isn't it?"

"Yeah, I'd say so," John sighed, raising his eyebrows, "Well, that's…that's not something I ever thought I'd hear from you."

"What? That I'd honestly want to settle down with Molly?"

"That you'd want to settle down at all."

Sherlock chuckled a bit and leaned back against his pillows; "I love her, John," he whispered, closing his eyes, "is that so crazy?"

"For you? Yes," John replied, "Is…is that why you changed your mind about dying? Because of Molly."

Before Sherlock could muster a response, there came a small knock from the door.

"Excuse me, Doctor Watson," the nurse said, "Mr. Holmes' doctor is here to check up on the transfusion. If you wouldn't mind stepping out of the room for a few moments, please."

"Go on, John," Sherlock sighed, taking a hold of his friend's hand and giving it a soft squeeze, "it's alright."

"Sherlock," John said, "can-when you're ready, can we talk about what you just said? About the whole…dying bit."

Sherlock let out a deep sigh and nodded off to sleep, finally giving in to his fatigue.

"Sherlock? Love, are you awake?"

The cheerful sound of Molly's voice woke Sherlock from his afternoon nap. He was now laying on his side,curled up in a ball under his thin hospital bed blankets. Very slowly, he blinked his eyes open and turned his gaze toward the woman standing in his doorway, carrying a small overnight bag. She was dressed in a striped jumper and gray sweatpants, looking very relaxed and together.

To Sherlock, she looked absolutely stunning.

"Hello," he slurred, a smile growing across his lips.

"Did we wake you?"

Sherlock just shook his head as he rolled himself onto his back. He looked about the dimly lit room, taking in the slightly changed scenery. The IV that had been set up during the transfusion was now gone as was John. _'Guess that death conversation will have to wait,' _Sherlock thought to himself.

"What time is it?" he mumbled, running a hand over his face.

"Half past five," Molly said, walking fully into the room, "John said you drifted off around 2."

"Hmm," Sherlock sighed, "you would think that after being in a coma for two weeks I wouldn't be so…so sleepy."

"I don't think I have ever heard you say the word _'sleepy'_," Molly giggled, "Your elegant vocabulary disappears when you're tired, love. You sound like a toddler."

"Sleepy is a word used in everyday vocabulary by everyday people," Sherlock replied, "Don't judge."

"Right, of course, sorry," Molly sighed, taking his hand into her own. She then leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his stubble covered cheek; "How are you feeling?" she asked, "Truly?"

"Like I'm doped up on morphine, which, evidently, I am," he replied, "So, in short, I've never been better."

Molly chuckled as she moved to lay down beside him, being mindful of his various IVs. She rested her head on his shoulder and placed her hand over his chest; "Is this alright?" she asked, "I don't want to be in the way."

"You? In the way? Never," he replied, nuzzling his forehead against hers, "When did you talk to John?"

"He called me after your doctor came in," she replied, "I was at Baker Street with Mary and…and your brother."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and sat up a bit; "What was he doing?"

"Helping us get the place set up," she replied, "for when you come home."

Sherlock smiled at her and gently stroked a piece of hair out of her eyes; "Home," he said, "you deserve that, Molly."

"As do you, Sherlock," she replied, "you and I have been through so much. Don't you want to go home? Leave this hospital room and get back to cases-"

"And building a future," Sherlock added. He looked deeply into Molly's eyes and studied her features. She looked so calm and relaxed, but there was something else. Just like she could always see through him, Sherlock could see through her. He knew what she was thinking, really thinking: "You're not sure."

Molly furrowed her brow and pulled back a bit so to look at him fully; "Sure of what, Sherlock?"

"If what I said to you was true," he explained, propping himself up on his elbows, "about how I wanted to spend a future with you."

Molly sat up as well and chewed her bottom lip. She really didn't know what to say. For some reason, her dream came to the forefront of her mind: the image of Sherlock cuddling their daughter, the silver band on his finger. She wanted those images to be true, but a dream is just a dream. Isn't it?

"Molly," Sherlock said, "you don't have to answer."

"Sherlock, I…I don't want to hurt you." she said, looking down at her lap, "I love you."

"I know that," he replied, "But I also know that you're apprehensive because of what happened."

"Sherlock,"

"I told you all of that in the hallway of that boat: how I wanted to spend a future with you, how much I loved you and then I…I gave up." He took Molly's hand into his own and studied their intertwined fingers; "John told you what I said to him, did he not?" he went on, "About the text."

"About how you wanted to die," Molly said, tearing up a bit, "yeah, he…he mentioned that, but I knew that. The look in your eyes when I-when the girls and I carried you onto the lifeboat, I knew you had given up."

"I stopped fighting this illness because I was loosing."

"You didn't loose, though. You are alive."

"But I didn't want to live."

Molly looked at him in disbelief, her heart breaking; "You don't mean that," she said, "Sherlock, how could you?"  
"I didn't want to live through this anymore," he went on, "I didn't want this pain, this discomfort, this…loss of any trace of who I was. My mind was failing and I saw no way out."

"Were…were you going to make sure?" she asked, her emotions causing some build up in her throat.

Sherlock took in a deep breath and brought himself to sit up fully. After a few moments of catching his breath, Sherlock turned toward his bedside table and picked up the wooden box John had left there. He fiddled it between his fingers for a bit, contemplating the decision he was about to make, then turned his attention toward Molly once again.

"I am a selfish man, Molly Hooper," he said, "On that boat, in those last moments before Moriarty blew it all to hell, I wasn't thinking about you or John or anyone for that matter. But in my lighter moments, albeit brief, I…I did think about us. About the future we would have and I…I _want _that future, Molly, a real future."

He opened the box and handed it out to her. With some trepidation, Molly took the box and peered inside. Instantly, she shot her gaze up and looked at him in absolute shock. Her eyes were wide; Sherlock could see the thousands of questions speeding through her mind. All he did in response was take a hold of her hand.

"I'll be sick for the rest of my life," he went on, "and it will get this bad again, but I would rather suffer through all this pain knowing that you are at my side then simply give up on myself."

"I'm…I'm always here for you," Molly replied, "That's what I signed up for when you took me in your arms that day Moriarty came back."

"As did I, Molly," he said, giving her hand a squeeze, "I won't leave you, not until my correct time, whenever that may be."

"Is…is that why you're giving me this?"

"I'm giving you this ring because I love you. Sentimental of me, isn't it?" he said as he slipped the ring onto her finger.

"I blame it on the morphine," Molly replied, slipping the ring onto her finger.

Their eyes met and Molly leaned forward to press her lips against his. Sherlock happily returned the gesture, wrapping his arms around her as he moved them to lay back down on the bed. When their lips parted, Sherlock gently cupped her face in his hands and brushed his thumbs across her cheeks.

"Forgive me," he whispered, "for all of this. We should be home now if I didn't take that case."

"Yes, but there would have been a new case for you to take on," she replied,"That is just who you are: You are Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

"And you are Molly Hooper," he said, "the woman who mattered the most."

"Did morphine always make you sentimental?"

"Hmm, sometimes it makes me see things."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

They shared a deep kiss again, letting the world around them slip away.

_**Hello, hello, hello!**_

_**Hope you all enjoyed this update. It was hard to get a flow for this chapter so it took sometime to really get it right. Let me know what you think; I love hearing from you guys, honestly. Just a few more to go with this one. See you next time.**_

_**Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	30. Chapter 29: If You Could Do It All Over

_**Chapter 29: If You Could Do It All Over**_

Molly stared out the car window, contently watching the outside world through the rain drops dripping down the tinted glass. Black cabs were zooming by and people were dashing about, trying to find coverage before the oncoming storm hit. Molly watched them and smiled; never had she thought she'd find the hustle and bustle of London so comforting. To her, these people meant normalcy. They meant getting back to a life that she had grown so fond of.

They meant she was going home.

A grunt from beside her made Molly turned her attention away from the window and to the figured curled up beside her. Sherlock was fast asleep (no surprise there), his legs folded up close so that his knees were at his chest and his forehead was pressed against the window. He was dressed in his normal black button up and trousers, along with his signature coat, however, he didn't look like the Sherlock Holmes from the papers. He was thin and pale, looking too small in that large coat of his. His sharp cheeks now decorated with the stubble of facial hair giving him a much older look. He was a changed man and his appearance showed it.

After almost a month and a half in hospital, Sherlock had finally received the doctor's okay to head home. His body had accepted the marrow transplant and his overall health seemed to be improving. Molly had been present as the doctor explained what would happen now that they would Despite that bit of happy news, his battle would never be done; Sherlock would have to fight this sickness for the rest of his life.

"You're staring," Sherlock sleepily said, without changing his position.

"Sorry," Molly giggled, coming back to reality, "I was just thinking."

"About?" he asked.

"What we are going to do once we're home." she whispered as she leaned over and cuddled up close to him.

Sherlock chuckled a bit and opened his eyes about halfway; "Ms. Hooper," he said with a smile as he wrapped an arm around her, "you surprise me."

"Oh?" she asked, "How so?"

"Well, I find it hard to believe that you don't already know that once we are back at Baker Street, and are free from any unwanted eyes, I will be taking you straight to bed and having my way with you."

"Sherlock!"

"Well, how else do you expect me to consummate our engagement?"

Molly just giggled and playfully smacked Sherlock's shoulder; "You don't have the strength," she said, blushing a bright red.

"Is that a challenge, Dr. Hooper?" he asked, intertwining his finger's with hers, "Or simply a clue as to what is to come?"

"Oh, shut up," Molly sighed, rolling her eyes as she rested her head atop his shoulder, "you impossible man."

Sherlock smiled to himself and placed a soft kiss on her forehead; "I am glad we are going home," he said after a few moments of quiet, "That hospital room was becoming too…normal."

"Too normal?" Molly asked, "How do you mean?"

"The same dull walls, the same dull ceiling, the same dull sound of my monitors," he explained, "I thought I was never going to get out of there."

Molly frowned a bit and looked down at their hands; "You mean, you thought you were going to die in there," she said.

"Yes, to put it bluntly, I did," he sighed, "Either the sickness or my injuries would have taken me. I had come to terms with that."

"Sherlock, please," Molly sighed, giving his hand a squeeze, "I don't want to think about all that. I-Look, can't we just be happy right now? We're going home and you…you're okay."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry, love," he whispered, kissing her forehead again. He then started to chuckle a bit; "Listen to me," he went on, "I sound so damn sentimental."

"I think there's still some morphine in your system," Molly said, "you'll be back to your old, cold, unsentimental self by tomorrow. I'm sure of it."

"Hmm, looking forward to it?"

"More than you realize, Sherlock."

A comfortable silence filled the car once again; Molly content with watching the rain again and Sherlock drifting back to sleep. Within a few minutes, the long, black car pulled up in front of 221b Baker Street; Molly had never thought that red awning of the neighboring sandwich shop would bring her such joy. As the car came to a stop, Molly watched as the driver exited and then came around to open the door for them:

"We're here, Mr. Holmes," he said as Sherlock stirred awake once again, "Do you require some assistance?"

"No, no, I'll be fine," Sherlock grunted, stretching out a bit, "Don't hover."

"Hovering is his job, Sherlock," Molly said as she helped him sit upright, "It's what Mycroft pays him to do."

"No, Mycroft pays him to drive around this car," Sherlock rebutted, "If he was going to pay someone to hover over me, he would have ordered a nurse to follow us back here or, you know, come himself."

"He's still recovering from the donation," Molly said, "you know that if he could-"

"I know, I know," Sherlock said, "and I…I am grateful to him, very much so. Don't you dare ever tell him that."

Molly just sighed and shook her head; "Come on," she said, holding a hand out to him, "let's just go home."

Sherlock smiled and took her hand into his own; "Yes," he said, giving her hand a squeeze, "let's."

They exchanged a soft kiss on the lips and then piled out of the car; Molly went out first and then held her hands out so to help Sherlock. Once he was out and on his feet, but still leaning on Molly a bit to keep himself upright, Sherlock reached back into the car and picked up an object from the floor.

His cane.

It was for support, more than anything. The doctor had told Sherlock that he would only need it for awhile, just until his strength came back.

"A bit of physical therapy, Mr. Holmes," the doctor had said, "physical therapy and time. After that, you'll be back to running around London in no time."

Sherlock hated the idea of a cane, but he did truly understand the need for it. It was everything it stood for that bothered him the most: it meant that he was weak. It meant that he was broken. It meant that he wasn't the man he once was.

"You alright?" Molly asked, bringing Sherlock back to the present.

Sherlock nodded and gripped the cane tightly in his left hand as he leaned against it; "As I will ever be," he replied, giving Molly a tight smile.

Before Molly could respond, the door to 221b quickly opened and Mrs. Hudson came bursting out to greet them, happy tears streaming down her cheeks:

"Oh Sherlock!" she cried, wrapping her arms around Sherlock in a warm, tight hug, "I was so worried!"

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," he replied, hugging her back with the use of his free arm, "as you can see there was no need to worry. I bounced back."

"Hardly," she said, pulling back a bit so to cup his face in her hands, "you are the size of a twig and look an absolute fright."

"Well, that makes me feel so much better about myself, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied, "I thank you for that."

"Oh! There it is, that tone." Mrs. Hudson cried, "I have missed that tone." She embraced him again, tightly, and allowed her tears to fall freely.

Sherlock smiled and placed a cordial kiss on her cheek as he returned the hug. Though he wouldn't vocalize it, Sherlock had missed her as well. After a few moments, they parted and Mrs. Hudson turned her attention to Molly.

"You brave girl," she cooed, embracing her, "You brave, brave girl."

Molly hugged her in return, smiling at the feeling of finally being home. Yes, she had been to Baker Street since she had been released from hospital, but it hadn't felt right. Not like now; this was what home should feel like.

This is right.

"Come on," Mrs. Hudson said when they parted, "Let's get you inside. Sherlock, do-"

"No," he quickly said, already heading toward the door, "I don't need any help. I can get into my own house on my own terms."

"And the stairs?" she asked, "Can you-"

"Mrs. Hudson, I have survived a 14 day coma, an explosion at sea and I am currently battling some Godforsaken blood disease," Sherlock added, "A couple flights of stairs won't be the death of me."

"You stubborn, stubborn man," Mrs. Hudson said with a chuckle, "Your pride is a force of nature."

"Hmm, yes, well, something has come close to breaking it," he replied, over his shoulder, "Turns out that I'm not as indestructible as the world would like to believe." He then opened the front door and stepped inside, leaving Molly and Mrs. Hudson outside to share a somber look.

"Will that be all, Ms. Hooper?" the driver said, "I would be more than willing to stay and help."

"Oh, no thank you," Molly said to him, "We'll be alright."

"Very well," he said, getting back into the car. After a few moments, he drove away and Mrs. Hudson and Molly went inside.

Once they were inside the flat, Mrs. Hudson stepped in front of the couple and started up the stairs: "Now, I've tidied up the place, kept it nice and dust free while you were both away," she said over her shoulder, "Don't worry, Sherlock, I didn't go near the refrigerator; whatever cultures or body parts you had roosting in there are untouched. God only knows what sort of health problems that will cause."

"You didn't have to do that for us, Mrs. Hudson," Molly said, following her, "Honestly."

"Oh, please, it is my pleasure," she said, "I wanted it to look like home for you two; wouldn't want you to both to come back to a dusty mess, now would I?"

"Mrs. Hudson, we couldn't thank you enough," Molly said, "Truly."

"You know that I view you both as my own," Mrs. Hudson said, "and I couldn't be happier to see you both back here." The elderly landlady stopped on the landing and turned back around to face the couple: "John told me about the whole thing, not fully in detail of course, but enough of it to fathom the horrors you both faced," she said, setting a hand on her heart, "I am so happy you're back and safe, both of you. Now, Sherlock can get better and life can get back to the way it was."

"Well, we…we hope so. Right, Sherlock?" Molly said, turning back around to talk to Sherlock, but he wasn't following her up the stairs.

Sherlock had stopped right at the foot of the of steps. His expression was blank, but his eyes showed that he was somewhere else. He was deep in thought, maybe in his mind palace or maybe just deep within his own thoughts, but it was clear he wasn't in the present. His hand was gripped tightly to his cane and his breathing was sharp. Careful not to stir him from his trance-like state, Molly walked back down to stand beside him and set a hand on his shoulder. He didn't stir; he just kept staring down at the floor.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked, setting her free hand on his arm, "Love, are you okay?" When he didn't respond, Molly furrowed her brow and moved to stand right in front of him; "Sherlock, can you hear me?" she asked, cupping his face in her hands, "Sherlock?"

After a few moments, Sherlock blinked a few times and seemed to return to reality; "I, um, I'm sorry," Sherlock said, his voice sounding so off and distant, "I just-I have a bit of a headache all of a sudden, that's all."

Molly studied his expression for a bit and then let out a heavy sigh; "What is it?" she asked, moving her hands to his shoulders, "Tell me."

"Nothing, nothing, just a headache," he insisted, "Shall we go up?" He moved to step forward but Molly blocked him. He was about to protest, but her determined gaze made him change his mind. He never really could lie to her; she always saw right through him.

"Sherlock," Molly said, locking her eyes with his, "please talk to me."

Sherlock sighed and gently cupped the side of Molly's face with his free hand; "You always see right through me, don't you?" he whispered, running his thumb across her cheek. He then turned his attention toward Mrs. Hudson who was watching the small scene from the top of the stairs; "Mrs. Hudson, can you give us a moment?" he asked, "Tell the Watsons that we will be up shortly."

Mrs. Hudson tutted to herself and did as she was asked, leaving the pair alone with their thoughts.

"Okay, talk to me," Molly said once she was sure they were alone, "What is going on?"

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh and took a seat on the stairs. Molly instantly sat down beside him, keeping her worried gaze fixed on him. Once they were situated, Sherlock placed his cane in his lap and gently ran his fingers over it, similar to when he would tune his violin. After a few moments of quiet, he spoke:

"I didn't solve the case," he said, "Yes, it's true that I don't have a perfect record, but…but something about this one. This case doesn't feel right."

"Maybe it's because there never was a case," Molly said, "You…you do know that, yes? I mean, you must have pieced that all together."  
"I suppose I did," he replied, "but there is still a mystery to all of this. This whole affair bore the very core elements of a case: the how, the what and the why. I found the answers; Moriarty had pieced together this madness just to break me. And yet…yet it feels as if I haven't finished anything. It's as if there isn't any closer to any of this."

"Have you always asked for closure with your cases?"

"I've always been able to have a sense of finishing them, yes. Even the unsolved ones; I've always accepted the fact that I have done everything I could. But this? I didn't do a damn thing. I was suffering while those around me were taking fire." He then turned his head and locked eyes with Molly; "You." he said, "You are what hurts the most."

"How…How do you mean?"

"I look at you Molly and I am reminded of how he hurt you, how he wanted to use you, and it was my fault. I put you in harms way. I…I failed you, Molly Hooper."

"No, no, Sherlock, you didn't fail me," Molly said, taking his hands into her own, "I don't blame you for anything."

"You should," he went on, "I've lied to you about my health, I practically forced you to join on this venture and you were hurt both physically and mentally, no doubt. Molly, if it wasn't for my pride, you would have never left this place. You would have been safe. You would have been fine." Sherlock then took a deep breath and broke eye contact with her, looking back at the cane in his lap; "I am a broken man now, Molly," he said, "Perhaps more so than I'd like to admit. I don't know if I can go on like this. How could I possibly do my work when walking through my own door makes me dizzy? And how can I care for you when there is this constant fear that I might not be able to make it through the day without passing out or falling extremely ill? Perhaps, it would be better if I…I just gave in."

Molly's heart skipped a beat as she looked at the truly downtrodden man before her. What had happened to the man she was sitting in the car with just moments ago? The one who was madly in love with her and couldn't wait for that future to start now that they were going to be home. He seemed to just be a dream, because that was not the man sitting beside her. Here sat a man who normally was so proud and so strong, now sad and distraught over all that had transpired. And now there is this talk again of ending it all? It scared her and hurt her; had everything they had been through really been for nothing if he wasn't willing to keep fighting?

"No, no," Molly said, shaking her head in disbelief, "It's the morphine, isn't it? This is the morphine still in your system talking."

"Molly," Sherlock said with a small chuckle, "This isn't the drugs. This is me."

"No it isn't, Sherlock," she snapped, "because the Sherlock Holmes I know, the Sherlock Holmes who gave me this ring, who has promised me a future and the man whom I have put my very life on the line for, wouldn't give up on life just because of one bad case."She then stood up and hovered over Sherlock, grabbing him firmly by his shoulders: "You listen to me, alright," she said, holding back tears, "try and get this through your momentarily, morphine addled mind. You are not going to die and you are not going to stop fighting, alright? You're going to get better and, damn it, if you won't work toward that for yourself then at least do it for me. You gave me this ring, promised me a forever, and I intend on spending that with you. We have gone through so much, Sherlock, please don't…don't stop now."

"Molly, please," Sherlock sighed, "I…I don't want to kill myself. Not anymore. I am just thinking that maybe…maybe I can't work anymore."

"You can and you will," she said, "they might not be as exciting as you'd like, but you'll solve them because your work is a part of you. It's what makes you Sherlock Holmes and that is one of the reasons why I didn't stop you from facing Moriarty. I wanted you to take that case so don't place all of the fallout on yourself. I feel just as guilty."

"Molly, you shouldn't," Sherlock quickly said, getting to his feet. Once he found his balance with his cane, Sherlock took his free hand and gently placed it atop Molly's cheek; "Please don't put any of this on yourself," he went on, "Moriarty was my fight."

"He was mine too," she said, "The fact that he is gone for good this time…Sherlock, do you realize how happy I am knowing that he will never come for us again? It feels like a giant weight has been lifted off my chest; don't you feel that too? Is that not enough for you to be at peace with this whole affair?"  
"I don't think I can ever be at peace with it," he said, "Moriarty may be gone forever, and that does bring me some relief, but-Richard and Kitty are dead and Annie is still missing. I could have done more for them."

"You did everything you could," Molly said, cupping his face in her hands, "we both did."

There was a silence that fell between them. Neither knew what to say or do next. So much needed to be addressed and yet they didn't want to delve into any of it. Even though it wasn't said, they both wanted the same thing; they wanted to move on.

"Molly," Sherlock whispered, "I love you."

"I love you too," she replied.

"I didn't give you that ring for nothing," he went on, "I mean it."

"Then show me," she said, "show me you wants this to work and that you want us to keeping going. Don't stop fighting and don't ever feel like you're alone, okay? I'm here, right here. I'm not leaving you."

"Molly?"

"Yes?"

"May…may I kiss you?"

Molly didn't give him a spoken response. She simply closed up the small gap between them, wrapping her arms around his neck, and placed a deep kiss on his lips. Sherlock returned the gesture, wrapping his free arm around her back so to hold her close. Not all was mended or forgotten in this moment, but that didn't seem to matter. For this moment, it was okay. They were okay.

"Do you want to try and head upstairs again?" Molly asked when their lips finally parted.

Sherlock nodded and took her hand into his own. Keeping the proper amount of weight on the cane, Sherlock slowly started up the staircase. Molly kept a tight hold onto his hand, only guiding him just slightly. She wanted him to conquer this on his own; perhaps that would help him a bit. When they finally reached the landing, Sherlock leaned back against the wall and let out a deep breath.

"That was tedious," he sighed, giving her hand a squeeze.

"Do you need a minute?" Molly asked, "I can greet our guests first if you want; maybe even get them to leave a bit earlier."

"No need for us to be rude," he replied, "I think we've made them wait long enough." He then somberly looked into Molly's eyes; "I didn't mean to unload all of that on you just now," he said.

"I'm glad you did," she replied, "and you always can. It's like I've always told you, Sherlock: If you need anything, anything at all, you can have me."

Sherlock smiled and brought her hand to his lips; "Come on," he said, kissing her knuckles, "let's go home."

Molly smiled at him and they both entered the sitting room of 221b Baker Street.

"And here they are," Mrs. Hudson announced as the couple walked in through the entrance way, "is everything alright?"

"Yes," Molly answered as she helped Sherlock out of his coat, "even better now that we're home."

"I should hope so," John said, rising from his old chair to greet the couple, "Welcome back." He shared a hug with Molly and then turned toward Sherlock; "Hate the cane yet?" he teased.

"I've loathed it the moment I laid eyes on it," Sherlock replied, "and I swear to God, John Watson, if you start to berate me about it…"

"Berate you? Never," John chuckled. He then placed a firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder and smiled; "It is good to see you, Sherlock."

"You saw me yesterday."

"Yeah, but…you know what I mean."

"Oddly, John, I don't."

John just laughed and surprisingly gave Sherlock a hug. Sherlock was bit hesitant at first but then gave into the gesture, hugging him in return.

"Come on, come on, let the two of them sit down," Mary said joining them by the entrance, "They must be exhausted."

"Not exhausted, just happy to be back. Officially, I mean," Molly said, hugging Mary and then hanging up both her's and Sherlock's coats, "I have missed this place."

"It certainly beats a bland hospital room," Sherlock mumbled as he made his way to his leather chair. Molly watched with a smile on her face as he sunk down into the chair and leaned back a bit. She hadn't seen him this relaxed in months.

"Sher! Sher!" came a happy squeal from the floor just by his feet. Sherlock looked down and smiled at young Harper Watson, who was just staring back at him with a gummy smile.

"She has been dying to see her Uncle Sherlock," Mary said, walking over to the chair and placing a kiss atop Sherlock's messy mop of curls, "How are you feeling?"

"Not the question you'd want an answer to at the moment," Sherlock quickly replied. He then turned his attention toward the little girl who had somehow managed to crawl up into his lap.

"Sher!" Harper squealed again, gently patting her pudgy hands atop his chest.

"Yes, yes, hello," Sherlock said, taking the girl into his arms, "My goodness, you have grown Harper."

The little girl giggled, but then furrowed her brow as she ran her fingers over the stubble on her godfather's cheeks.

"Don't be too concerned with how I look, Harper," he told her, "it's still me, I promise. This will all be gone in no time. Although, I think your Aunt Molly quite likes it."

"It does give you a rougher edge, yes," Molly said, sitting down on the arm of his chair, "I certainly wouldn't mind the facial hair stuck around for a bit longer."

"Maybe," he said as he placed a hand on her thigh, "I doubt it though."

"Alright, now, I know you're going to complain, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, entering the room from the kitchen, carrying a plate of assorted baked goods, "but I wiped up a few things as a welcome home gift for you two."

"And, of course, celebratory drinks are in order," Mary added, pulling out a large bottle and some plastic cups from the Tesco bag she had set by the coffee table, "It's apple cider, before you ask. No alcohol until you're off meds, Sherlock Holmes."

"I am aware," Sherlock replied, "thank you for the reminder."

"You are all so kind," Molly said, giving Sherlock's hand a squeeze.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, "my fiance and are very grateful."

Hearing him say the word fiance made everyone in the room stare at Sherlock in awe; Molly, of course, with pride more than surprise. She had yet to hear him actually call her that and it sounded very nice.

"You actually went through with it," John said, a proud smile on his face as he sat down in his old chair across from them, "Well done, Sherlock!"

"Now I really wish we had champagne," Mary said, popping open the bottle, "this seems like a poor second."

"Hardly," Molly giggled, "the fact that you want to celebrate is enough."

"Well, of course we do, my dear," Mrs. Hudson cooed, "You're getting married."

"Yes we are," Sherlock said, proudly. He then turned his attention toward Harper; "What say you, Harper?" he asked, "Are you excited for Molly and I?"

"Mm," Harper hummed, nuzzling her head under Sherlock's chin and cuddling up close to his chest. Sherlock welcomed the gesture and placed his free hand on her back.

"I'm going to assume that means 'yes'," he said, looking back at Molly. Molly laughed and intertwined her fingers with his as she leaned down and kissed his cheek. Her heart was full again. She was home with Sherlock, truly home. There was a long road ahead of them both, true, but at least they were back where they belonged.

221b Baker Street: Their home.

_**Long time to update, yes I know, but I couldn't get the feel of this one right. This was the edited version I was happy with. Please let me know what you think, I do always love hearing from you guys. There is one chapter (Maybe two?) left of this tale. I have been so lucky to have you readers supporting me through this; I greatly appreciate it.**_

_**Until next time!  
Much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


	31. Chapter 30: My New Life Starts Right Now

_**Chapter 30: My New Life Starts Right Now**_

_****3 Months Later****_

The limited, morning light peered through the curtains of 221b Baker Street. Sherlock stirred a bit, letting out a soft groan as he stretched out his body like a cat. He had no idea what time it was, nor did he care; that nap was well worth the time spent, even he had to admit. Rolling from his back to his side, Sherlock blinked his eyes open and looked around the room in content. A small fire was fading in the fireplace and the sound of rain was echoing from outside. There were papers stacked on the desk and his violin was set up right beside them. A small, half mouth smile grew across Sherlock's lips.

Everything was as it should be, nothing was out of place.

This was how life should be.

It had been 3 months since Sherlock and Molly had come home from the hospital, nearly 5 months since he had woken up from his coma. The road had not been an easy one; the illness was still there, looming it's ugly head over them everyday. Sherlock had begun treatment and was slowly regaining his strength while he was continuing his work. The scars, both physical and mental, were still present from the whole Moriarty affair. The case was still present in his mind and would likely be for a very long time. As always, and definitely forever, Moriarty was his curse.

But he had Molly, that was his light. She had her own wounds from the case, but she kept fighting through them. She had returned to work just a week after Sherlock came home, but she continued to be present and helpful through Sherlock's healing. She took him to every doctor's appointment, made sure he was taking his pills and kept him as healthy as possible. Sherlock often told her that she shouldn't worry about him, but Molly told him otherwise.

"I love you," she would reply, "taking care of you is helping me, I promise you that."

Sherlock and Molly were married just two weeks after he had come home from the hospital. It was a small ceremony in a private chapel; they didn't want a large party, just their closest friends and family. That future they had promised each other was becoming a reality; it was no easy feat, but it was worth the work. After all, the easy way of life was never for them.

"You're up," Molly said as she came into the living room from the kitchen, "Did the thunder wake you?"

"Hmm? Oh, hello," Sherlock yawned, stretching out again, "How long was I out?"

"Long enough," Molly chuckled as she made her way to stand beside the couch. She was dressed in loose fitting trousers and a black, long sleeve shirt with her fuzzy yellow dressing gown wrapped tightly around her frame. Despite the over-sized dressing gown just draping around her, Sherlock could make out Molly's silhouette perfectly.

"You're showing," he sleepily grumbled with a smile, "Just a small bit, but it's clear that you are expecting."

"Are you saying I've gotten fat, Sherlock Holmes?" Molly teased.

"No, no," he replied, sitting up with a grunt, "I'm just saying that our child is beginning to make itself known." He then placed his hands over her abdomen and gently ran his fingers over the fabric of the coat; "You do know that it is normal to show at 8 weeks?" he said, "Different body types react differently."

"Yes, I know," Molly chuckled, "I was at the same doctor's office as you. Speaking of doctors-"

"I feel fine," he quickly replied, "It was just a headache."

Molly rolled her eyes then gently placed her hand under his chin, lifting his head up so that they were looking each other in the eyes: "We're going to be parents, Sherlock," she said, brushing her thumbs against his chin, "Now, more than ever, you have to be honest with me about how you're feeling."

"I know that," he replied, "I'm not lying to you, believe me: I had a headache, I took a nap and now I feel fine. No fever, no nausea, nothing. Can't you trust me?"

"I can and I do, but…well, you know me," she said, "I worry."

"I told you to stop that," he sighed. He then smiled as he rose to his feet, never breaking eye contact with Molly; "If my body starts acting up again," he said, setting his hands on her hips, "I will tell you."

"Straight away?"

"Straight away. I'll even let you drive me to the hospital. Doesn't that sound exciting?"

"Sherlock, don't be coy," Molly groaned, playfully hitting his chest.

Sherlock chuckled and placed a kiss on top of her head; "Right, back to work," he said, tucking his purple button up back into his trousers, "Anyone stop by while I was asleep?"

"No," Molly replied, walking back into the kitchen, "Mrs. Hudson thought that the storm was maybe keeping clients away. No one wants to come out in the rain."

"Crime doesn't stop because there is rain, Molly," Sherlock said, but then he furrowed his brow as he took a long look at Molly: "You're home." he stated rather plainly.

"So I am" Molly said as she started setting up the kettle for tea, "I thought that was fairly obvious, Sherlock."

"No, no, I mean, you are here and not at the lab," he clarified, "Why aren't you at work?"

"It's Saturday."

"Are there no corpses on Saturdays?"

"There are, but I don't tend to them on weekends."

"Since when?"

"Sine we got back home. Well, since _you_ got back home."

Sherlock nodded and ran his hand over his face: "You cut your hours so you could be home to watch over me, in case I fell deathly ill again," he sighed, walking over to the window to look down at the street, "I remember the conversation now; I thought we had decided that there was no need for that."  
"Hmm, yes and no," she replied, completely unmoved by his clear annoyance, "I wanted to cut hours to be here while you were regaining your strength, yes, and you agreed to that as long as I promised to return to my normal schedule once you were up and running again. I was planing to, but then, well, this happened." She set her hand on her stomach and smiled at her husband; "I want to be home more once the baby is born, so why change my schedule now? This works. Besides, I shouldn't be working in the path-lab while pregnant; chemicals and all that, you know."

"And you don't feel as if you are…limiting yourself?" Sherlock asked, "You know, selling yourself short?"

Molly furrowed her brow and gave her husband a stern look: "Selling myself short?" she asked, "What on Earth are you talking about?"

"I just-Oh, never mind," Sherlock sighed, brushing his hand through the air, "I'm over thinking it."

"You? Never," Molly teased as she walked over to stand beside him at the window. She wrapped her arms around his middle and rested her chin on his shoulder (slightly raising up on her tip toes); "Talk to me, Sherlock," she said, kissing his cheek, "You know that you always can."

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh as he set his hands over hers; "Before all of this, before I fell ill and stupidly pushed the Moriarty case, you had your work and I had mine," he explained, keeping his gaze toward the window, "We were in pace with each other and yet we had our own was nothing wrong with that; I certainly had no complaints. But lately, it seems, that had changed. No surprise, really, but I…I don't know if it's for the better."

"Sherlock," Molly said, her breath hitching a bit as started to pull away from him, "what do you-"

"No, no, please. You misunderstand me," he quickly said, taking her hands into his own and finally turning to face her, "I am happy with our life together, I couldn't be more sure of that. All I am saying is that, I don't think this change is fair. You have given up so much in these past few months alone, that I can't help but think that you are putting your life on the back-burner because of me. Forgive me if I come off as unappreciative toward everything you've done, love, but I can't help but feel as if I am keeping you from, well, being you."

Molly sighed and gave her husband a small smile. She released his hands and gently cupped his face I her hands; "Sherlock, I'm happy," she said, nuzzling her forehead against his, "I am the happiest I have ever been in my life. I have a job, a roof over my head, a baby on the way, and a husband who is alive and well."

"So says you," he muttered under his breath, but Molly heard him clearly.

"You are well, don't refute it," she replied, "Sherlock, please know this: you are not holding me back. Where we are, what we are doing: this is just right for us. Are we perfect? No, but what couple is? Our lives are not what they once were and I don't think they ever will be again. I'm fine with that, believe me. If I am honest with you, Sherlock, I think our lives are better."

"Truly?"

"Truly. You are up and about, not feverishly asleep in the bedroom. I am no longer worrying every second of the day, but moving through it all. We are starting a family, Sherlock, can you believe it? If that's not a sign that our lives are getting better, then I don't know what is."

Sherlock let out another sigh as he set his hands on her waist. There was nothing more to be said; they knew one another. She understood his concerns and likewise he understood her reasons. This was them and they both couldn't be happier, honestly. This was part of that future they had been longing for. It could only go up from here.

Sherlock nuzzled his head into the crook of Molly's neck and shoulder; "I don't think I ever thanked you," he whispered, stealing a kiss on her neck.

"For what?" she asked, running one of her hands through his thick curls.

"Continuing to save my life," he replied, "In so many ways, Molly, you are saving me each and every day."

"There is no need to thank me, Sherlock," Molly whispered, "I've always told you that if you needed me, you could have me."

"And I have you," he said, "God knows that I have you, Molly Holmes."

A small smile grew across Molly's lips and they wrapped each other up in a warm embrace.

Once they parted, Molly set a protective hand over her stomach and headed back into the kitchen. Sherlock watched her as she busied herself with making tea and lunch (or would it be dinner? He wasn't entirely sure of the time). He had never imagined himself looking upon such a sight like this; a woman, his wife, carrying his child and caring for him. Just months ago, he thought his life was ending. How poetic that it actually seemed to be beginning.

"Yoo Hoo," Mrs. Hudson's customary call and a knock on the door broke Sherlock from his thoughts.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," he said, facing the landlady standing in the archway, "To what do my wife and I owe the great pleasure of your company?"  
Mrs. Hudson placed a hand on her chest and gave him a questioning look: "Are you still feverish, dear?" she asked, "That sounded awfully too polite to be coming from you."

"Blame it on impending fatherhood," Sherlock quipped back, setting his hands on his hips, "seems to have made me keep my manners in check."

"I really will never understand you, Sherlock." she sighed.

"That makes two of us," Molly called out from the kitchen making Sherlock smile.

"Well, any matter, I just came up to tell you that your brother is here," Mrs. Hudson said, "He was waiting on the porch when I went out to head to the market. Oh, that reminds me! Do either of you need anything while I'm there?"

"No, but it would be nice if you could let him up," Sherlock said, turning toward the window again, "loath as I may be to let him in, I no doubt he is here for a specific reason."

"That sounds more like you," Mrs. Hudson chuckled, "I'll send him up. Evening, Molly!"

"Evening, Mrs. Hudson." Molly called back as the landlady descended the stairs.

"It's evening?" Sherlock asked

"Yes, love," Molly giggled as she came back into the living room with the tea tray, "You slept through the whole afternoon."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed to himself. There was a few moments of silence until Sherlock heard the soft patter of footsteps on the landing; "Mycroft," he stated, sitting down in his chair, "pleasure to see you."

"Likewise, brother mine," Mycroft said, entering the flat completely, "I see you are looking well."

"Am I really? Well, your marrow seems to be doing the trick," Sherlock rebutted. The brothers shared a somber look, both wordlessly expression their brotherly admiration toward one another. Mycroft was thankful to see his brother alive and Sherlock was thankful to him to be alive. They never needed to say it, but they were grateful toward one another.

"Mycroft," Molly said, embracing her brother-in-law, "Kettle's just boiled, would you like a cuppa?"

"Thank you, Molly, but I won't be long" he said, returning the hug. When they parted, Mycroft took a good look at Molly and chuckled; "Well, well," he said, "The world will soon be welcoming a new Holmes then?"

"Yes," Molly said, blushing as she set both her hands over her middle, "but not for some time. We were waiting to tell everyone until I was a little further along."

"Still, it is rather exciting," he said, "Congratulations to the both of you."

"Thank you. Now, why are here?" Sherlock asked, reaching a hand out to Molly, "You wouldn't have braved driving in this rain unless it were important."

"I have a bit of news," Mycroft admitted, "It's in regard to Moriarty."

"What is it?" Molly nervously asked, walking over to join Sherlock in his chair, "Did…did something happen?"

"There's been a development of sorts, one that I feel the both of you should know about." Mycroft went on, taking a seat in the chair opposite them, "The team investigating the explosion sight were able to recover a body of an adult female, mid to late thirties. She matches the description of Anna Pierce."

"Oh God," Molly breathed out, covering her mouth with her hand. Sherlock instinctively took Molly's free hand into his own, but kept his gaze on his brother; his expression was so still, so emotionless, one would think that he didn't even hear what Mycroft had said.

In their minds, both Sherlock and Molly knew that Anna would not be found alive. It had been too long and frankly impossible for her to have survived out there; they had barely made it themselves. With no food, no fresh water and freezing cold temperatures, her death was the only logical outcome. Anything else would be proof that miracles were real.

Sadly, that was never going to be.

"What happened to her?" Sherlock asked in a whisper.

"Do you really wish to know?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes," Molly answered, giving Sherlock's hand a squeeze, "Please, Mycroft, we…we both want to know."

With a heavy sigh, Mycroft leaned forward and looked at the couple with a very serious expression: "It's been some time, as you both know, so the body is pretty distorted. The autopsy was not an easy one," he explained, "It would appear that the cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head."

"From the explosion," Sherlock said, "Am I right?"

"Yes, that is the most logical explanation," Mycroft replied, "It would seem that she was knocked upside the hide by a large piece of debris from the explosion."  
"Christ," Molly said, her eyes welling up with tears.

"She was knocked unconscious and fell out of the lifeboat," Sherlock finished for him, staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, "She hit the water and-" He stopped himself and looked toward the small, fading fire. After a few moments of staring at the embers, he spoke again; "Where is she?" he went on, this time allowing his voice to break just slightly, "Has…has her family made an ID?"

"Yes, her older sister came in from Manchester," Mycroft said, "There will be a funeral for both her and her husband in the coming weeks."

"I wish to attend, pay my respects," Sherlock quickly said, "Can you make that happen?"

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, "you-"

"Can you make that happen or not?" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft let out a heavy sigh and rose to his feet; "I will reach out to her family," he said, "No doubt they will remember our family name. After all, you and Anna were close."

"Get me a way to contact them and I'll do it myself," Sherlock said, quickly raising to his feet. He then walked over to the window and just stood in front of it, staring blankly out at the stormy world outside.

"Mycroft, you…you had better go," Molly whispered, gently taking her brother-in-law by the arm and guiding him toward the door, "Thank you for letting us know about Anna."

"Of course," Mycroft replied, somberly looking over at his brother, "Watch over him, Molly. I fear this news may have…stirred some past thoughts."

"I'll talk to him," she replied, "He'll be alright with me."

"He always is," Mycroft said, giving her a soft smile. He then nodded and headed down the stairs.

It was quiet for a few moments. Thunder echoed and the rain was coming down even harder. Molly wrapped her dressing gown around herself even tighter as she cautiously walked toward Sherlock. She didn't know what he was thinking; was he blaming himself for what happened to Anna or was he just grieving? Suddenly, his words from all those months ago were running through her mind; the ones he spoke to her when they were sitting at the bottom of the stairs:

"_I could have done more for them." _

"Sherlock," Molly said, coming up behind him and setting a hand on his shoulder, "love, say something. Please talk to me."

"He wanted to break me," Sherlock said, continuing to stare out the window, "That was all Moriarty wanted with me. He went through so much planing and plotting just to get me on that boat and for what? To make my end a spectacle? What was he to gain from that?"

"Proof that you were human," she somberly said, "He loved seeing you in pain and he loved causing it. Theatrics were his specialty and this…this was his grand finale. You always said that he was a madman. How can anyone explain the antics of a madman?"

"People died because of me, Molly."

"They died because of him."

"Yet, I am the reason Annie was on that boat," he said, finally looking at her, "If only I'd been well enough to fight back. I could have saved them: Kitty Riley, Richard Pierce, Annie, and yes even David. They didn't deserve to die like that."

"No one does," Molly whispered, taking his hands into her own, "and I'm not going to try and justify it. All I can say is that we are alive and Moriarty is not. No battle is won with out some sacrifices and God knows this one had it's share of them. But we are alive, Sherlock, and we can keep going."

"Yes, yes, we can," he replied, placing his hands over her stomach and nuzzling his forehead against hers, "I…I only wish this guilt wasn't weighing on my shoulders."

"You don't have to carry it alone," she replied, "I'm here."

"The last I want is for you to share my burdens, Molly."

"I married you, Sherlock. Sharing your burdens is what I signed on for."

A half mouth smile grew across Sherlock's lips as he closed his eyes and placed a soft kiss on her cheek. Suddenly, Sherlock wrapped her up in a tight embrace and began to shed a few tears. Taken aback by this sudden change, Molly held him in return and began to comfort him.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," she cooed, rubbing her hands up and down his back, "It's alright, Sherlock. I…I'm sad too."

They were quiet again, just taking in the moment. There was nothing more to be said, nothing more to be done. The case was over but a long road was still ahead. A road of recovery, of growth, of a future that would be no easy task to fulfill. Forward was the only path that was available and so forward they shall go. There would be dark days and there would be bright days; there was no way to change that. There would be the 'what if' and the 'if/then' scenarios of everyday life, but that's what kept it all worth fighting for.

"I love you and you make me very happy, William Sherlock Scott Holmes," Molly whispered, "Don't ever doubt that."

"Never," Sherlock mumbled, stealing a kiss against her cheek, "I love you too, more than words could describe."

They shared a smile and then a soft kiss on the lips just as another roll of thunder echoed off the walls of 221b.

_**Well, there it is. Not the happiest of ends, I will admit but this felt the most real to me. It took me a long time to get the right feel of it and I hope you all enjoy it. I want to thank you all for going on this journey with me; I am beyond thankful for the support I have received. This is my hobby, my escape from everyday life, and I am glad that you have all been along for the ride. **_

_**What's next? Who knows! I have an unfinished story on here that is LONG overdue for an update and I may write another Sherlock and Molly tale (if you guys are interested). Let me know what you think and maybe shoot me some ideas as to what you would like to read! I do love hearing from you guys. **_

_**See you all on the other side.**_

_**As always, much love and many thanks,**_

_**Samwise221b**_


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